


lost in time, lost in space

by powercrow



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: A Steve For Every Bucky, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Biting, Brief Endgame Steve/Endgame Bucky, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky enjoys smoking, Canon Character Death - Tony Stark, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Planet Hulk, Canon Planet Hulk Violence And Murder, Comic Book Science, Depression, Devil-Dino Eats People and Trash, Endgame/Planet Hulk crossover, Ensemble Marvel Cast, Equally Hand-Wavy Space Travel, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Exposition through Dreaming, Falling In Love, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Hand-Wavy Time Travel, M/M, Mad Max Inspiration (brief), Multiverse, Not Canon Compliant, Passive Suicidal Ideation/Behaviors, Past Planet Hulk Steve/Planet Hulk Bucky, Past Relationships, Planet Hulk, Planet Hulk Steve/Endgame Bucky, Poor Negotiation, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professor Hulk - Freeform, Relationships - See Author's Note, Second Chance at Love, Slow Burn, Soul Stone Shenanigans, Steve Enjoys Cute Animals, Temporary Character Death - See Author's Note, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vormir, Weird Plot Shit, What Scientific Method?, bittersweet endings, hand-wavy medical procedures, happy endings, multiple Steves, weird creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 135,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercrow/pseuds/powercrow
Summary: On Earth, Bucky hasn’t had it easy: Hydra. Thanos. 5 years gone. Just when he thinks things will settle down, that his happy ending is around the corner, Steve disappears into time without a trace, leaving Bucky to pick up the pieces. He’s managing, when another, half-dead Steve in a fucking gladiator outfit tumbles into his yard.Steve lost his home when his planet was destroyed, stranding him on Battleworld. He lost Bucky to God Doom's cruelty. Only his warbound, Devil Dinosaur, remains with him, & the revenge they exact for Bucky is a faint comfort. Haunted by his past, all that’s left to him is endless battle when the universe rips open, dragging him to another unfamiliar planet.Both battle weary, knowing grief & loss. Together, they find love again.Meanwhile, Earth Steve isn’t exactly lost in time. His mission to return the Infinity Stones just didn’t go as planned. So now he’s on a new mission, one spanning space & time, one where he can recover the lost & find his own happiness.Warning! This story contains Sadness & Violence, but also Steve being Adorable with Animals, Courting via Cooking, Bucky being Reluctantly Charmed, & Devil being Absurd
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 48
Kudos: 55
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. chapter 1 - gonna shake it 'til the life has gone

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I was drawn in by dinosaurs and Gladiator! Steve, was foolish enough to read a comic without checking spoilers, and had my heart broken. And then, you know, Endgame happened. 
> 
> So, 135k-ish words and a year and a half later, here we are. 
> 
> This fic has been well-salted by tears, seasoned with rage, and tempered by love and a healthy dose of absurdity. And, best of all, it's beautifully illustrated by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041744) and [whatthefoucault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/works). I'm so excited to share this collaboration <3
> 
> **Sensitive topics** are tagged and/or are addressed in chapter specific **warnings** in the author notes. There are also more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags. 
> 
> **Created for the 2020 (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Devil Dino lose their warbound and vow revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the Planet Hulk comics, reading the couple paragraphs linked below might be helpful for a quick 101 type primer! Comic heavy content is mostly in Chapters 1 and 3. 
> 
> **Sensitive topics** are tagged for, and chapter specific **warnings** will be in the author notes for each chapter. 
> 
> Please see the end notes regarding additional information and/or spoilers on the following topics/tags. (Clicking on the links in the list will take you down to that specific topic)  
>   
>  **1.Info on Battleworld/Planet Hulk**  
> Details on the Planet Hulk 'verse, how it fits with the comics overall, where this fic deviates, and so forth.  
>  **2.Title info**  
>  **3.Relationship/Ending details**  
> Details on the relationships in this fic, (who ends up with who). It's tagged as well, so there should be no surprises, but if you need more info to make an informed decision...it's there  
>  **4.Character Death tags**  
> Details on who is alive (aka, the exceptions to canon)  
> 
> 
> **Chapter 1 Warning/Content Notes**  
>  Description of temporary character death, somewhat graphic descriptions of violence committed by Planet Hulk Steve, general descriptions of violence, spoilers for the end of Warzones! Planet Hulk comic.  
> 

Scene Art by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884539) (click for AO3 art post)  


_Battleworld 2015 - The Mud Kingdom_

Tucked into a small stone alcove, Steve takes a deep breath, then a second one, centering himself. His axe and the edges of his shield are wet with blood, and he cursorily wipes them with his tunic. Steve’s arrival to the Mud Kingdom, the stronghold of the Red King himself, had not been particularly subtle, but he’s still eager to prevent a bloodtrail that could betray his presence at the wrong moment. The familiar motion calms him, the cloth absorbing the blood, the dull shine of the metal catching the light once more. 

He hears the bellowing roar of a Tyrannosaurus rex, _his_ T. rex, Devil Dinosaur. A faint smile quirks the corners of his lips as screams begin to rise at the sight of dust flying past the arrow slits — the evidence of Devil wreaking havoc. 

Devil...his warbound. Faithful, loving and loyal. Providing a crucial distraction at this moment, engaging the Red King’s hulk army so Steve can sneak in here, can pursue their primary objective.

The reclamation of their other warbound.

Bucky. 

Bucky, his warbound now. In a different lifetime, on a different planet, they’d served together, fought together, been best friends. Lovers. And finally, husbands. Still husbands, no matter what this hellscape has done to them, no matter how it pulls at them, separates them. 

They’d come to this planet, Battleworld, years ago, transported through space and time, in a confused, bewildering blur that had resulted in the destruction of their home planet. Been pressed into service, to continue fighting for the ruler of this place, the seemingly omnipotent God Doom. 

God Doom, and his Killiseum. A monument to blood, to cruelty and violence twisted into sport, filmed and broadcast at large. The memories press in at Steve, the times he’d shared with his beloved Bucky. 

How they had fought together. At first, it had been pure survival, desperation to live one more day together. Bucky covering Steve while he had fumbled for his new, unfamiliar axe. Steve using the shield and axe in tandem for the first time, desperate to defend Bucky when his sword had broken, when he’d taken a hard blow to the head and gone down.

Steve had rarely been so scared as he was then, seeing Bucky lying still, the blood running from his head while beasts — fantastical, improbable creatures had closed in on them. Devil...that had been how Devil had come to them.

The Tyrannosaurus rex had liked something about Steve’s smell, huffing softly at him instead of tearing him apart. Had seemed amused by Steve’s efforts to menace him away from Bucky's motionless form. 

And next thing the two of them had known, the rest of the horde advancing on them had been...decimated. Torn apart by Devil’s razor sharp teeth, and they’d been a trio after that, inseparable. Rising in the ranks, God Doom’s perfect, undefeated warriors. Champions of the Killiseum. Challengers had come from far and wide to face them, only to find death. 

They’d risen in favor. Had waited. Waited longer than Steve could have imagined, the blood and the bodies piling at their feet until…

Escape. Freedom. Brief, sweet. It’s a memory Steve treasures, the few short months they’d spent together, free of the Killiseum, the cruel games and the unnecessary death, the constant fear, the cameras — always watching, recording, transmitting.

Of course, later, after being recaptured, they’d been used against each other. 

Individual bouts. One man’s compliance used to guarantee the safety of the other, Devil’s safety. 

Until one night Bucky had just…disappeared. Steve had watched him from afar that night, each of them chained a good distance apart, able to see each other from their cells, but never allowed to be alone together. 

Never close enough to touch, to exchange a whispered word.

Steve had watched Bucky, bathed in the sickly moonlight pouring into his cell. Bucky’s dark hair had gleamed, and Steve’s own heart had broken, as Bucky had turned his face up to the sky, peering through the bars. He’d seen the shine of tears on Bucky’s cheeks, the new scars on his back and arms that even the serum couldn’t keep up with. Steve had watched, and he’d felt the tears on his own cheeks. Tears he’d been unable to stifle, even when Bucky had turned, caught him at it. 

Bucky had been gone in the morning. Cell empty, clean. And...he hadn’t returned. Gone for a day, then a week, a month. It’s the longest they’ve ever been apart, that he can remember. Steve had thought he was desperate before, but after Bucky had disappeared, Steve had known the true taste of fear — frantic desperation and a heart that wouldn’t settle into place. His repeated attempts at escape were easily thwarted, so, in the end, he took a different path. Those who play in the Blood Sports, who win, make it through all twelve matches... 

They get a chance. A chance to see God Doom, albeit from a distance. Earn the right to shake the hand of Arcade, the game master; to look on the face of Sheriff Strange, the acting arm, the voice of God Doom. Steve craves these things, for the chance to ask his questions, to find out what happened to Bucky. 

And so.

He’d fought again. He’d never stopped before, of course. But it had been...by rote. Carefully measured, calculated. He’d done what had to be done to keep Bucky and Devil alive. 

After Bucky had disappeared, Steve fought with all of his desperation; it shamed him, after, the things he’d done to his opponents, the impunity with which he’d dispatched them, fools just like him, trapped in a shared hell. Though...his opponents were just as deadly as Steve, just as committed to their own survival, and to waver, to have anything other than a single-minded purpose to make it out alive... 

Would be to die on the sand. 

At night, he’d lain quietly in his cell, shame twisting through him as blood dripped from his hands, wondering if he’d ever truly be free of this. 

He still wonders, hiding in the shadow of the Red King’s castle while screams rise around him. 

After winning the final match, Steve had hoped to walk away, Devil at his side, Bucky’s location in his head. He and Devil had seized their chance, Devil snapping up Arcade and Steve both, holding them within his jaws. Steve and Devil had practiced this a dozen times before, to entertain in the Killiseum. Now, it’s a threat. Arcade had been ready for it though, had incapacitated him with a bolt of electricity, sending Steve’s body rigid and unresponsive. 

And Steve had once again found himself in chains before Sheriff Strange and God Doom. 

This time, though, he’d left with new knowledge. Bucky had been given a mission right before he’d disappeared — assassinate the Red King in exchange for their freedom. Bucky...had failed and been taken captive. Now, his same mission was offered to Steve and Devil. 

Assassinate the Red King. Retrieve Bucky. Go...free. (Steve has no illusions God Doom will let them go so easily, but….he will cross that bridge when Bucky is safe, back in his arms. 

Steve lifts his axe again, hefting it easily with one hand, and braces the shield against his other forearm. 

Now that he’s so close, mere minutes from _Bucky, safe, with him, with him and Devil again,_ he finds it difficult to remain calm even after the ritual of cleaning his blades. Eagerness and a fine edge of fear churn together in his stomach.

Only his control and long-held muscle memory keep his axe from shaking in his grasp, hands and heart and every cell of his body so eager for the feeling of his warbound finally in his arms again. He sets the thought in his mind, centers his body around it. Moving with alacrity, he leaves the alcove. Enters the long, winding staircase he hopes will bring him to the Red King, to Bucky. 

The journey up the stairs feels unending, and he fights with himself not to run, to keep himself from dropping his weapons and flying up the stairs to reach his destination that much faster. Flickering torches cast light over the filthy steps and discolored walls, and the rank smell of burning tallow hangs in the air. Guards appear in a steady stream, and fall at his feet just as quickly, taken down smoothly with a swing of the axe, a toss of his shield. Steve climbs ever-upward, seeking to keep as silent as he can.

When he finally exits the narrow stairwell, he falters for just one step, eyes flicking over the room, desperate to catch a glimpse of Bucky. The room is lit with an even greater number of torches than the stairwell, for all that the light barely touches the corners. The thick smell of smoke and burning fat is oppressive on the back of his tongue, and he swallows to keep himself from gagging. 

Steve is immediately disappointed, feels tension settle further into his shoulders, in the muscles of his neck and jaw. Even casting his gaze far into the unlit corners, he can see no sign of his warbound, and must turn his eyes at last to his nemesis. The Red King, the man he’s been sent to murder. 

Beyond the reach of the light, the Red King lounges on a cobbled-together mess of rock and bone that is nonetheless recognizable as a throne. Even with his serum-enhanced eyesight, Steve has to squint to make out his form. Enormous shoulders, twice as broad as Steve’s, and even in his sprawled position, the King’s head is well above Steve’s. The light flares suddenly, illuminating the King fully, and despite his urgency, Steve watches with fascination as one gigantic foot slides over a skull, toes curling into the eye sockets. It’s an absent-minded caress, but strange and grotesque, to treat remains in such a way. 

Steve comes back to himself abruptly as silence falls, and he realizes he has missed everything the Red King has said to him, so distracting is his appearance and demeanor, so hypnotizing is his voice, low and resonant and filling the entire room. Re-centered to his purpose, Steve has to fight to control himself, not to scream and shake the King until Bucky rattles loose from wherever he’s being kept. 

He manages control, just barely. His tongue maintains its civility as they engage in a polite dance of introductions; inquiries and feigned confusion even as unspoken violence shimmers beneath the surface. Steve grips his axe so hard he can feel the bones of his hand grinding together, while the Red King maintains his carefully cultivated insouciance, black hair shining dark and tangled against the fur slung around his shoulders, lounging against a femur angled just-so to act as an armrest. 

The nearest torch hisses and pops, sending sparks dancing through the air as the Red King cradles a glass made from a skull, filled with a dark liquid, the other enormous fist clenched on a club. The Red King is insulting, his words derogatory, and Steve fights to ignore it, not to raise his voice in anger to this vile, hated person. Desperate to overlook any profanity, bear any insult if it will only result in Bucky back in his arms, _safe,_ their long fight finally over. 

_I think of us back home._  
_Bright summer days, free of war._  
_I pray you are unhurt._

And he does pray, and he wonders, briefly, if the little house they’d built together still stands, if it had managed to keep its own against the oppressive gamma-enhanced elements. With those thoughts, Steve’s tongue is no longer able to dance. He can form no more polite nothings, because panic is pushing him now and his voice is not as commanding as he’d like, an edge of desperation hanging sharp in the air. 

“I am here for my warbound, Bucky. He is your prisoner.” The Red King takes his time to answer, sipping at his beverage. Steve’s voice cracks in the air, broken by impatience; impatience and the fear beginning to thrill through him. 

“Release him to me, and I will spare your life!” 

And then he’d waited, eagerness and fear squirming in his gut. He’d waited, while the Red King feigned confusion, tipping his head to rest on one oversized fist. He’d waited, while the Red King chuckled, and then laughed, deep and mocking, curling through the air and hanging in the greasy smoke. 

He’s truly scared now, but cannot show it, showing instead the anger that has twisted through him, that has escalated steadily throughout this seemingly unending mission. 

“Where is Bucky? TELL ME NOW!”

He...

Doesn’t remember much more, past that. The Red King’s laughter, continuing without end. The mingled _panic-fear-oh God I’m too late I’ve been too late it was always too late_ and the shine of firelight on a metal arm and a voice in the air thick with rage and sorrow and oh God it’s him, throat hoarse and then...

A brief, frantic struggle. The smirking confidence in the Red King’s eyes, and the moment when it dissipates and the feeling of the shield pressing into, then _through_ the soft flesh of his throat. The extra force needed, arms extending and body weight dropping to sever vertebrae with the razor sharp edge of the shield. 

And after. 

After, Steve pulls the shield free, arms straining. He’d gone straight through the neck, into the ground below. He should...clean it. Do something, anything. He can still hear Devil outside... _oh_...Devil, how will he explain…

Steve staggers free of the body, slumps heavily at the base of the throne. Shaking, he reaches out...touches….

The arm.

Bucky’s arm. 

Bucky’s arm that the Red King had produced, with an air of sadistic glee. He’d drunk deep of Steve’s fear, his increasing confusion, and when he’d finally voiced Steve’s worst fears…

_Bucky is dead. Bucky has been dead. While Steve and Devil had fought through the Killiseum, traveled through Greenland to the Mud Kingdom, their warbound had been no captive, waiting for rescue, but had instead been summarily executed._

_Bucky had died, alone and afraid, and Steve hadn’t been there to stop it. Hadn’t even known he should be there._

The enormity of his loss opens up before him, a great gaping hole in his chest and he finds he can’t breathe properly, breath coming fast and shallow and _oh oh he hadn’t...he hadn’t even known_...Bucky had passed from the world, unacknowledged, unmourned for...how how long had it been? 

What had Steve been doing? Had it been in the dead of night, while he’d slept? Had it been as he’d cajoled Devil into their tricks with Arcade? Or, when he’d been engaged in some other, now meaningless fight, blithely believing each step took him closer back to his husband, his warbound, his...Bucky. 

Steve clutches the arm to his chest, all that is left to him now. Sobs tear from him, great ugly, gasping things, wracking his body. He weeps, heedless of the blood pooling around his feet, going tacky and dark, or the wide staring eyes of the Red King’s head, left carelessly where it had fallen. 

Steve weeps until the torches begin to fade, the room settling into true darkness. He stiffens, when the shadows shift, and…

“How long have you been lurking there, Doc Green? Where have you been?” Steve’s voice rings out harsh, accusatory. 

Doc Green comes forward, lighting a single torch. He has a look to him that Steve does not like, a sly, pleased set to his oft inscrutable features. Otherwise, he looks as he always does - massively tall, standing head and shoulders over even Steve. Green skin stretching taut over heavy, thick muscle; short, dark mohawk being crushed down by his goggles, pushed up on his forehead. 

He’s the last person Steve wants to see right now.

Doc Green, the guide that Sheriff Strange had assigned to him, to lead him through Greenland, the Mud Kingdom, and to the Red King’s castle. He had been a difficult and often infuriating travel companion; condescending and cruel by turns. Steve had not forgotten when he’d found him tormenting a wounded sand grub, his rage when Steve had killed the grub, rather than subject it to further torture. 

He seems, to Steve, to be a zealot of sorts — he’d talked nearly endlessly, of gamma, of violence; of society and people, fauna, the very flora embracing what he had called Hulk. 

_...We are all hulk, Captain, gamma scrubs the mirror clean of pretension. It shows us who we really are. Gamma burns away all that is false and impure, reveals the war and violence within us. Hulk is the reality we deny ourselves…_

Doc Green’s eyes had been lit with mania, the words nearly tripping out of his mouth, and when he hadn’t spoken of gamma, of hulk, he’d persevered about Devil, Steve, and Bucky, and their relationship. Asking too personal questions, questioning their bonds, making too familiar observations. Seeming to gloat, when Devil had wandered to find his own way, fight his own battles, leaving Steve’s side. 

He’d talked endlessly, confused rantings attributing everything from the wonders of sliced bread to the work of Hemingway to God Doom, but he had denied Steve answers to the things he had truly wanted to know. Logistics, intelligence on the Red King, his warriors. Who Doc Green had been, prior to this, and how he had come to serve God Doom.

In retrospect…

Steve pushes to his feet. Gently sets the arm aside. He’d gone hot with his grief, and now, he has to refrain from shivering, his skin damp with cold sweat, muscles gone stiff. He realizes now...horror coalescing in his stomach in a hard lump...

Steve had been a fool. He’d seen Doc Green as harmless. A zealot, passionate enough in his beliefs, but ultimately he had trusted that Doc was doing as he’d been instructed. Had trusted in God Doom’s mission, had been confident in his ability to go his own way, double-cross them both. 

Now, as he looks at Doc Green’s face, watches him smile, slow and satisfied…Steve knows he has been played for a fool. 

Things fall from there, as he expects. 

Doc Green, claiming the throne of the Red King on behalf of Doom. His smug mockery of Steve, of further becoming Doom’s creature, doing his bidding. Still, Steve had been prepared to walk away, to leave Doc’s rantings behind, collect his dinosaur and go. But then....

To learn that Doc had known of Bucky’s death, well before he’d even come to meet Steve, to guide him to the Red King. His insinuations that he’d engineered Bucky’s capture, manipulated Steve’s journey here. And when Doc had finally revealed his true self...his body shining with light as he’d screamed and screamed, body twisting, shrinking...

And Steve had been looking...into his own face. He’d nearly put up a hand to touch Doc’s cheek, like looking into a mirror turned askew. There’d been differences, of course. Doc’s face had been largely untouched — skin largely smooth and pristine, clean shaven; in sharp contrast with Steve’s heavily scarred, stubbled mien. Still...the line of the jaw, and the shape of the nose...undeniably the same. Even so, Doc Green had been ugly to him; the cruel set of his mouth and the mania in his eyes, creases worn across his forehead from a face set to calculate, to manipulate, to betray.

As Doc — Steve — had continued talking ( _would the man never stop_ ) the depths of his crimes had become truly clear. He’d lived a similar life to Steve’s, surely enough, up until...Steve nearly vomits, the very idea anathema to everything he is, everything he has ever been.

To have the chance to save Bucky...and to turn away, to let him die. Not once, but _twice._

Steve does lose himself, at that moment. 

_Blood, beating in his ears a relentless pulse vision going dark, sparkling at the edges, a mocking smile, white teeth and he’s rushing forward, no thought in his head except —_

_Stop._

_No more._

_No._

_More._

Steve had been gentle, in the end, despite everything. 

Steve himself has rarely had anyone _Bucky_ be gentle with him. He’s been at war, steeped in violence and blood for so long, and despite that, because of it...he can’t help but be gentle with this horrible analog of his. Doc Green, once Steve Rogers, who had embraced gamma and cruelty and called it _virtue_ , called it a religion worth following. And, in doing so, stripped himself (and now Steve) of the best thing, the kindest and softest thing in his life. And so, despite the hate he has for Doc Green, for the things Doc has said and done, Steve is gentle with him. 

He...pities him, even as he hates him, and he lets gentleness coat his cruelty. 

Doc Green had been unused to fighting in his non-Hulk form. Steve thinks maybe he hadn’t fought much recently, even in his Hulk form. Physical violence is not stamped into him, the way it is with Steve, despite Doc’s bravado, his glorification of gamma. His struggles had been weak, and Steve had borne him down easily, pushing Doc’s back into the acidic, harsh blood, thick from the neck of the Red King, pooling on the ground around him.

A quick hit to Doc’s head, another just under his solar plexus, leaving him stunned and gasping, and then kneeling over him, Steve had placed the blade of his axe, delicately, against his chest. 

It’s razor sharp. He cares for his weapons, keeps them honed and in as deadly condition as they can be. 

He’d let the edge sink, just the smallest bit, biting into cloth, resting on the skin below. 

And then, he’d begun to talk, for once. Leisurely, slowly. He’d told Doc Green about Bucky, _his_ Bucky. 

Sure, a lot of it Doc knew. They’d come from similar worlds, once, timelines only a step apart.

But he tells him anyway. About growing up together, holidays at each other’s houses, and their first apartment and then enlisting together. 

The serum — _they’d tightly clasped hands as they’d been injected, neat rows of blue fluid entering their veins in coordinated bursts_ — and the war — _Bucky losing his arm in that freak explosion and Sam leading them with humor and skill_ — and the new arm and the therapy and the psych evals and finally getting out, going home, leaving the field and hanging up their weapons.

He doesn’t spare Doc the soft things — how they’d kissed for the first time, clumsy and fumbling in the living room, only to jump apart when Bucky’s sister came in, brash and confident and unaware of how Steve’s heart raced even as his fingers twined into Bucky’s under the blanket, sweat-slick and hot.

And then, years later, when they’d finally fucked for the first time and Steve cried; during, and after, and Bucky had sung (badly) all week, tuneless warbling while loading the dishwasher and off-key humming into Steve’s ear when they were tangled together. 

He drags Doc through the Killiseum; blood, and sand, and escape; losing Bucky and bonding with Devil. The gamma changing them, warping them, ultimately pulling them closer together as they’d accepted their new home here, had planned for a new life in a land so strange yet not bereft of wonder and joy. 

All the while, he slowly, slowly lets the axe sink into Doc’s chest. Doc struggles, sometimes, and spits vitriol, but Steve’s got excellent control — _he can do this all fucking day_ — and he’s got nothing but time, now, no one to go home to or rescue. He can hear Devil outside, and Devil doesn’t need rescuing, seems to still be having a most excellent time in fact, and Devil too, has nothing but time. 

Steve has to exert himself a little more, to cut through Doc’s sternum — the bone is tough, but in the end, his axe is sharp enough for the job, and he’s no stranger to cutting bone. 

As he carefully presses the blade through the bone, he tells Doc about the ring he never got to wear, smooth and golden and carefully hidden in a drawer for safekeeping, for _after_ and the house — _their_ house, that had been torn apart when he and Bucky had been pulled into this dimension. 

Smiling, even as the tears run down his cheeks, he tells Doc how Bucky had never forgiven him for losing his ring. How Bucky had made a point of showing off his own, welded securely to his finger, shining and silver. 

And at the end, when his blade first nicks Doc’s heart, it’s like he’s cutting into his own, like he’s losing his own heart in stereo, and he repeats himself a little, but he lets Doc know nonetheless.

How sorry he is that Doc threw away his own love, stripped the best of him from himself. When Doc goes tense and frantic, he soothes him, hand gentle through sweat-soaked, short blond strands even as he continues to push the axe into Doc’s body, one-handed. 

He reassures him; that he isn’t going alone, that Steve’s own heart died months ago, alone and scared and it’s just now catching up with him, with them both. And that Steve is with him, won’t leave him till he’s gone. He keeps cutting, keeps talking, tells Doc how beautiful Bucky was, how loved, and how good things had been even here in this hellscape, and how fucking sorry he is that Doc didn’t have that, willfully missed the best part of _his-their-Steve’s_ life and made that absense into a fucking virtue. 

Tears stream from Steve’s eyes and drop onto Doc’s face, staining his well-worn clothing but even that cannot keep him from the task he’s set himself. 

Steve goes quiet, finally, when blood pours from Doc’s mouth even as his lips work frantically, teeth stained red and eyes wide, shocked. 

After, he closes Doc’s eyes. He cleans his blade and his shield. He checks over Devil, carefully, relieved to find no wounds on the T. rex but the presumptive wound to his heart, having to tell him that Bucky will never come back to them. Devil is too large to hug readily, but he tries, wrapping his arms around the snout of the T. rex, taking comfort in warm breath and the familiar pebbled skin. 

Steve is adrift; the solid weight of Devil the only thing keeping him on this plane. 

They leave the Mud Kingdom behind. Already the residents are forming factions, jockeying for power while the head of their King sinks into the mud where it had been dropped. Steve’s voice is harsh, ragged from crying and yelling, from singing Doc’s death song, but he finds himself talking again anyway as his hands move restlessly over Devil. 

_I am afraid, brother._

_Bucky...he always made me feel like there was hope. That the future was worth fighting for. But there is no future._

_Is there anything left for us besides blood and violence? We should never have come here._

_Come, brother. Let us go. Do not look back, Devil. Never look back._

They do not look back. And when they cross out of the Mud Kingdom, step onto the hot, unforgiving sands at the very edge of the Badlands, Steve is resolved. There is nothing left to them, but blood and violence but — there is still so much of that to be had. 

Scene Art by [LiquidLightz ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884539/chapters/68312095)(click link for AO3 art post)  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1\. Planet Hulk Notes/Canon Notes:**  
>  Any mistakes here are my own! I am not an expert in comic canon, particularly this one. But, as some background info for folks who haven’t read these ones: Secret Wars is a storyline where the Multiverse is destroyed, resulting in a lot of little “pockets” of the Multiverse being stitched together into Battleworld, a violent, gamma-radiated land. Warzones is a miniseries within Secret Wars, of which the Planet Hulk comic is a very tiny part of. 
> 
> It’s a little confusing, but technically Planet Hulk! Steve lives in a part of Battleworld (rather than on a Planet named Hulk), where gamma radiation has caused much of the transported folks and flora/fauna to turn into hulked-out versions of themselves. God Doom is the ruler/presumed architect of this land. It's populated with different 'verse versions of various Marvel characters. Some of them in this fic are canon (Doc Green, Sheriff Strange), some I've made up. Within the capitol city (Doomstadt), he runs/has a gladiator-type fighting ring called the Killiseum, where Bucky and Steve are held and forced to fight. 
> 
> I’ve _only_ read the Planet Hulk comic, and any part of this fic set on/in/around Battleworld/Planet Hulk is either from that specific comic or made up. Canon mostly applies through Chapter 1, which details the end of the comic (including some quotes). It derails from canon pretty drastically from that point on and I took a lot of liberties with backstories, etc without regard for the larger comic ‘verse it sits in. So, there are (definitely!) errors or things at odds within the larger canon, but, uh, I really don’t care. :D  
> In contrast, I _have_ seen every movie in the MCU way too many times, and while I tried to stick to canon up to a point, there are definitely things I chose to ignore, and also, uh, don’t care 
> 
> **2\. Title Info:**  
>  All titles lifted from Rocky Horror Picture Show lyrics. When I started working on this fic early on, I happened to listen to Super Heroes, and it just crawled into my brain and set the tone for some of this, these lines in particular: 
> 
> _And crawling on the planet's face_  
>  _Some insects called the human race_  
>  _Lost in time, and lost in space_  
>  _And meaning_
> 
> **3\. Relationship Notes:**  
>  In this fic, Planet Hulk! Steve ends up with Endgame! Bucky, and the majority of the content is how they meet and fall in love.  
> There is pre, potential-for-relationship between Planet Hulk! Bucky and Endgame! Steve who meet at the end of the fic though this is like, the barest hint of anything and mostly lives rent free in my brain right now. 
> 
> Additionally, since the fic covers the Snap and the end of Endgame, as well as some of the events of the Planet Hulk comic, there is established EG Steve/EG Bucky within the fic itself, and references to PH Steve/PH Bucky past relationship, but these couples don’t get back together at the end of the fic (for reasons I think (hope!) will make sense). The four of them also don’t end up in a relationship all together. 
> 
> As an additional note - both sets of Steves and Buckys were happy in their original relationships, and they did not leave them of their own volition. However, some of the themes of this fic deal with loss and finding love again, and as a part of that process, Steve and Bucky both think critically about their past relationships - fairly gently, and largely with regret, but it’s there. 
> 
> **4\. Character Death Notes: (temporary and not)**  
>  In this fic, Endgame Steve, Planet Hulk Bucky, and Natasha are presumed dead by other characters for different periods of time. In fact, none of them are dead/they come back from death, although not all of the characters necessarily learn that information (ie, Planet Hulk Bucky and Endgame Steve do not return to Earth). Pietro Maximoff is also alive, just because. All other canon deaths are in effect (mostly applies to Tony in this situation, as the fic covers the Endgame battle and Tony's funeral).


	2. chapter 2 - take this dream away from me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky loses five years, and comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More beautiful art from the banner from [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041744) appears in this chapter!
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:** (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> violence, aftermath of war/violence, canon character death
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Unknown Location 2018 - A beach, kind of_

Bucky’s having such a good nap. He doesn’t remember when he fell asleep, or where, but the ground under him is soft, and it yields smoothly when he rubs his cheek against it. And, oh, he can feel fingers through his hair, and that’s...that’s nice too. He groans in pleasure when they scritch over his scalp, and he’d be embarrassed by it if he didn’t feel so good, so warm and comfortable and utterly relaxed. 

“Mmmmm, Steve, feels nice...” he murmurs, too lazy to open his eyes but not wanting him to stop. Bucky can hear rushing water, but it’s distant, and now the fingers are tugging gently, but...he’d barely recognized his own voice, just now. It’s rusty and his throat hurts, tongue swollen and lips cracked. It’s a sour note against the sweetness, and suddenly the fingers snag in a tangle, and then _pull,_ really fucking hard.

Bucky squawks indignantly, eyes flying open, “Ow! Fuck, get off!!” and he’s scrabbling to get his arms and legs under him, eager to dislodge Steve or who the fuck else is pulling his hair and...

Softly, because his throat is even drier than he thought, voice barely making it out. 

“What...the fuck...?”

He’s face to face with a gull — gray and white, head cocked to one side. A large hank of wavy, dark brown hair, _his hair,_ is hanging out of its yellow beak. Bucky sputters, realizes there’s sand in his beard, in his mouth, and he spits once, twice, wincing at the gritty taste. Slowly, he turns himself over, plopping down on his ass. The bird is seemingly unbothered by his shenanigans, and Bucky shivers at the intense scrutiny in the small, black eyes. 

With effort, he decides to ignore the bird, maybe try to figure out where he is, shit, _when_ he is. He’s no stranger to losing time, and he’s beginning to suspect he’s maybe lost a good bit, here. The sand under him _is_ soft and warm, and he realizes he _was_ hearing water before, he’d been hearing the fucking ocean, and the screeching of shorebirds. The beach is unfamiliar — sun high overhead, cloudless sky and sand and water stretching as far as he can see. 

It’s a perfect day, but physical discomfort is beginning to creep in, skin hot and tight — _sunburn_ — his brain helpfully supplies, metal of the left arm baked by the sun, and when he touches his fingers to his head, he can feel blood, damp where his hair had been ripped from his head by the ferocious gull. 

General confusion and discomfort aside, the ocean is a fucking picture, turquoise and clear with white foam clinging to damp, brown sand. And then his memories crash back into him and — “Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck, fuck_!” and he’s on his still-bare feet — _Steve._

Bucky wakes up, limbs stretching in sensuous pleasure against the sand, so soft and warm and the sound of the surf...the feeling of a beak in his hair, _Christ,_ that orients him faster this time, and he’s up on his feet, ready to start walking, frantic to get back to the fight, to Steve.

Bucky’s eyes fly open. He’s lying on the beach, and there’s a bird on his head, broad webbed feet sliding on his hair. He shakes it off, ignores its indignant squawk, the cold, black eyes, and scrambles to his feet. Bucky’s clumsy and the sand slides beneath his feet but he pushes forward anyways.

Bucky’s not proud of himself, but he keeps trying. He’s got somewhere he was, somewhere to be. He’s not quite sure _what_ anymore, and anytime he tries to think too hard — tries to head down the beach to find...someone? — he wakes up again, in the sand, with his friend, the ever-industrious seagull, now busily engaged in plucking at a fish carcass.

Time _is_ moving, at least slowly, because when he gives up, _just for now — he can try again later,_ the sun has shifted, moving slowly...not...westward. He frowns a little at that, but doesn’t push, and when he sits up, the sand slides around him, dry and warm. The pain he expects does not come. 

When he touches his head, his hair is a mess, tangled and matted with sand and probably blood, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust. He hadn’t noticed before, but he’s wearing sunglasses, oversized, lenses black and opaque and that’s...weird. He should be wearing... But he doesn’t push at the strangeness of it, tries to keep his brain soft around the edges. 

When he pushes himself to his feet, this time he notices his legs are bare, and so are his arms, skin pink but not sunburned, rough pain in his throat gone. He’s dressed in cut off jeans, and...he has never seen these particular garments in his own closet, let alone worn them. 

The denim is soft, pale blue, faded and worn. Bemused, he puts an entire finger through a hole right over his hip, the denim practically disintegrating. They’re shorter than he’s seen most men wear, and most of his thighs are bare, bony knees prominent. The...shirt he’s wearing is worse, an eye-searing tie-dyed mess, even through his sunglasses. Between the low neckline and overall lack of...fabric, the tan lines from his shuka are obvious. 

He realizes he has nowhere to go, physically can go nowhere, so he sits back down on the sand and watches the sun set, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He’s not sure when he drifts off, but when he wakes up again, it’s another perfect day, cloudless and warm. The sand is soft against his skin, and his bare toes are being kissed by waves. 

Despite the perfection, he can’t be still, can’t relax, despite his resolve to accept his circumstances yesterday. Anxiety coils around the edges of his brain, won’t release him and he _knows_ he should be doing something else, should be somewhere else. 

He resets so many times that day, he becomes nauseated, gagging softly and dry heaving when he tries to get up, head pounding. 

The next day is perfect as well, and the weather and the sand and the ocean curling at the edges all begin to do their job, eroding his anxiety, his panic, his eagerness to _keep moving, keep looking, get back to..._

He still resets a half a dozen times, but the day after is another chance, and eventually he’s sick of finding himself back on the beach, toes curling into the sand. He can’t sustain his efforts to _do something, anything_ in any kind of productive fashion, not without ending up back on his ass or flat on his back, or on one memorable occasion, half buried in the sand with the bird, that damn bird always there, trying to get at his hair. 

He thinks that if time is running linearly for the bird, it’s probably got an enormous nest by now, constructed entirely out of his hair. 

And when he finally accepts it, gives in, it’s...relaxing, if dull. He’s got a lot of time to think, to ponder, as long as he doesn’t think too hard. At the end of his first full day on the beach, he turns from the water, as the sun is setting, brilliant oranges and pinks and reds streaking across the sand, bleached bone-white at the edge of twilight. He turns, and there’s a cabin at the edge of the sand, and he makes his way across, feet slipping until he can push the door open, slide inside. 

The interior is dark, just a sliver of light coming in through the small, high windows. The twin bed shoved against the wall is narrow, barely big enough to fit him. But the sheets are clean and smell of cedar, and when he wakes up shivering in the gray dawn, the knobbly knit blanket in cool shades of blue and soft cream is warm and just a little scratchy when he pulls it up around himself. Comfortable, he falls asleep again until morning proper, when he wakes up and finds bread and coffee and fruit, and it sets the pattern for his days. 

He sleeps inside most nights, prepares simple meals in the tiny kitchen — assembling, more than cooking; toast and coffee, eggs; chunks of sharp cheese and nuts. Sometimes, it isn’t quite right — an odd tinge to a basket of apples, cloyingly sweet carrots, and, once, exceedingly angular almonds. He eats it all, regardless, and whenever he tries to push at the details too hard — _where does the food come from? Who built this cabin?_ — he ends up back on the beach, and he finally, truly gives up on imbuing his days with any sense of purpose. 

He still has occasional resets, but otherwise he...relaxes. He spends his days lying in the sun or ambling slowly along the edge of the shore, letting the waves wash over his feet. He can walk for hours, given that it is without purpose, but if he tries to go _somewhere,_ well, he resets. He can walk for hours, and whenever he turns around, the cabin is there, quiet and ever present. 

The gull is usually around as well, but he doesn’t care for it, tries to avoid its cold, dark gaze even as he feels foolish for his actions. He can’t explain, even to himself, why the cabin dogging his every step seems harmless, while the bird has a feeling of danger about it, but anytime he tries to pursue that line of thought, well. 

He wakes up on the beach, gull tugging his hair and sand in his shorts. 

He’s never been unoccupied for so long, in any of the lives he’s led. Even in Wakanda, he’d kept busy after coming out of cryo — healing his brain and his body, and after, doing all the little tasks that make up a day. He’d learned the routine of caring for goats and maintaining a home, and later, from Shuri, he’d learned to put words and form to the numbers that spin in his head whenever he lifts a weapon, enters a room.

Here, wherever he is, there’s none of that. He doesn’t remember the last time he wore shoes or a shirt with sleeves. He swims in the ocean and reads the worn, dog-eared paperbacks that litter the cabin. They’re varied, and once he finishes one, he never quite sees where it goes to. He reads them all, but he prefers the sweetness and heat of romances and the sweeping space operas to the dry biographies and tiresome political treaties that are just as likely to show up.

He never has to clean sand out of his arm, or sweep it out of the cabin. It mostly stays out of his hair after those disastrous first hours. He doesn’t train — it doesn’t occur to him. Sometimes, he stretches in the sun, enjoying the feeling of his skin slowly turning pink, the metal of his arm becoming sun-warmed. 

At night he sits out for hours, watching the sun drop and the stars stretch across the sky. He’s never seen so many, and the constellations are all unfamiliar so he names them himself. One, cat-like with a long sweeping tail, and another that he fancies as a shield. Wings and webs and a great axe, and a glove with shining knuckles and...

Scene Art by [LiquidLightz ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884539/chapters/68338690)(click link for AO3 art post)  


Some nights he falls asleep before he’s seen all his constellations. Those mornings, he wakes up curled small and watches the sun rise, entranced by the dancing colors and the slow spread of light across the ocean, the sand, the slow sparkle of his arm as the sun hits it for the first time. He ignores the shadow of the gull behind him, always nearby.

It’s the quietest his brain has ever been. 

He naps in the sun, and he naps in the cabin tucked into his bed. He drowses off after lunch, and sometimes wakes up just in time to stumble inside and into bed. He seems to be in a state of constant liminality — hunger and fatigue and...boredom always a step away, easily addressed but always lingering. 

One morning, Sam is there. He’s sitting in the sand, knees drawn up, watching the water. He’s casually dressed, more casual than Bucky has ever seen him — sandals and shorts and soft, pale blue tank in sharp contrast to the red and gray armor, or tight polo shirts. Bucky’d be surprised, but he’s learned at last, has no desire to be reset.

Sam too, has learned and he betrays no shock at being interrupted by Bucky. So instead, Bucky brings out breakfast _two mugs on the table and double toast_ and they talk until the sun is high, about nothing in particular.

They’ve been alright with each other since the whole...Civil War _thing_ happened. And Bucky still snorts to himself, because what a fucking overblown thing to call a pissing contest between a couple of overpowered assholes, over a third asshole. Truly, the product of a megalomaniac and a man with a highly overdeveloped sense of drama. Real Superheroes of New York is more like it, and _okay_ Bucky has been fine, getting in touch with himself and nature has been great but damn, he suddenly misses his tablet, wishes he could spend a couple of hours with some good reality TV or a cooking program, or maybe a nice rom-com. 

He shakes himself, ends up cajoling Sam into ambling with him up and down the beach and they find and skip stones, getting way too competitive about it. After lunch they hunt for driftwood, build the most elaborate structures they can and Sam’s is much better than his, so he _accidentally_ knocks into Sam’s — _he’s an old man, and so clumsy_ — and Sam tackles him and they laugh and scrabble in the sand. 

He...knows at the back of his head it’s not real, none of this is but he still values it, that Sam trusts him enough to touch him, does not shy from the shining metal arm even when it’s on full display in Bucky’s silly, palm-printed tank top. 

Sam leaves at sunset, but afterwards Bucky has visitors fairly regularly. He drinks endless cups of cold tea with Wanda and they roast themselves in the sun. When Shuri is there, they read the entertaining bits of Bucky’s books aloud and recap old, well-worn gossip, only to pretend at seriousness when T’Challa also comes by. 

One night, everyone is there, Wanda and Sam, and the Spider-kid, and other people he doesn’t know — a blond man, and a green one, and others. He builds a bonfire, and there is somehow beer, and eventually ridiculous attempts at dancing.

And in the morning, Bucky is mildly hungover and alone again. Except for the gull, who looks back at him dourly and ignores his peace offering of a small crab. 

Day after day, and night after night passes in largely uninterrupted sameness, and mostly Bucky’s brain stays quiet, pliant and soft. Until the morning he turns to his bed and finds his tac gear, laid out on the neatly made up bed — _the bed is always neatly made up, he’d stopped worrying about it._

The morning had been like the countless ones before it to that point: coffee and toast at the tiny table, flipping through his latest book until he’d begun to feel pleasantly drowsy. The shock of seeing his gear washes the sleep right from his brain, and he takes in the trunk at the foot of the bed, leather bindings cracked, sides dented, top propped open on the bed. 

The trunk is filled with weapons. Knives, _his_ knives, and _his_ guns, and holsters, and ammo — piles and piles of it. Awareness floods him, awareness that he’d been unarmed the entire time he’s been here, he’s been unarmed for _months,_ and completely unaware of it. 

Bucky...does not remember the last time he willingly went unarmed. And here, not only had he been without weapons, he’d been as vulnerable as he could be, dressing in shorts and various silly shirts. He’d worn soft, cut off sweatpants on cooler nights and he’d swam naked in the ocean, never realizing he’d been completely naked of anything to defend himself but his body, his arm. 

And the next minute, he’s gasping and his skin is cold and clammy, heart racing and all the quiet calm in his brain blowing out because — _fuck, Thanos, Steve Steve Steve_ — and what the fuck has he been doing, lying on the beach and reading novels when fuck, where is Steve and is he okay? Is he still fighting? _How long has it been?_ and it all comes flooding back into his brain, the entire fucking battle in Wakanda.

He’d managed okay, in that fight. The cold, sharp place inside him had been well-established, even before he’d been molded into the Winter Soldier. His hidden place, where he sinks in, settles down, where time moves slow, so slowly. Slowly enough to calculate any angle, cover his people’s retreat, return a punch, draw a knife. That day, it had risen inside him, around him, quicker than he’d expected, quicker than he’d have liked after spending two years being sunwarmed and a little slow with it.

He’d seen T’Challa and The General coming, had mused absently if Steve was visiting soon, if Steve would like the way his hair had lightened in the sun, turned almost red in places. He’d wondered if they’d...this time, and if Steve will ever be done, will ever be ready to rest, _with him,_ somewhere. And then he’d seen T’Challa’s face, serious even for him, and the chill had drifted back into his bones, had settled down deep as he’d fitted his arm in place, donned his armor. 

Later, he’d marveled at how quickly things could change — one minute mooning over his boyfriend and the next suiting up to kill a bunch of goddamn aliens who probably hadn’t asked to be brought to this planet, to serve as so much meat to wear down Earth’s defenders, but here they are, and here he is, and he’s not ready to lie down and die yet. 

Yeah, he’d done fine in the fight, always manages to, no matter how tired he gets, how redundant it all feels, yet another war not his own. Even if he’d ever been able to say no to Steve...fuck, Bucky’s always been a fool for those pretty blue eyes, he’d never not fight for Shuri, for T’Challa and Okoye and _Wakanda_ ; everyone that had taken him in, cared for him, helped him fix his brain and soothe his night terrors and find his humanity and purpose again. 

So, he’d fought and he’d mourned as he’d seen people he knew die around him and the grass torn up and the huge rhinoceroses cut down. At the end of the day, it was a familiar thing, and he performed it by rote, did his duty. 

After, the horde had thinned, but he hadn’t been able to relax, hair prickling at the back of his neck. The Outriders were circling, watchful, and there’d been that strange, bright pulse of energy, and he’d run then, flat out, because the way things had been going, that meant nothing good, which meant Steve would be heading straight for it. 

And his heart had ached, because the fields were torn and the dead and dying were everywhere, from the Jabari to the Mining tribe, the Merchants and the River tribe and he was, _is,_ so fucking angry at Steve for bringing this here, even as he’s terrified for him. 

And his feet had flown, sure and quick over the uneven ground and through the brush into the trees. He’d seen Thor, his enormous axe in Thanos’ chest, heard the brisk, sharp click of metal clad fingers, and he’d seen Steve, stumbling out of the underbrush and...and then Bucky’d gone...funny. 

Hydra had gone overboard on the stimulants, a time or two or twenty, and that’s what it felt like at first. Hands shaking, heart racing, he’d been so light he could float away, and he’d called out to Steve and Steve had turned —

Eyes locked together; blue eyes and a dark beard, blood and dirt and —

And then he’d realized he was seeing through his own fucking arm, through the cloud of ash that had _been his arm_ and _fuck_ Stevie is scared, and that had torn at him, blown the anger right out of him because Steve is a lot, all the time — he’s angry, he’s righteous, he’s dramatic as fuck, but he’s never scared.

Bucky’s vision had gone white hot; blue eyes dark beard red blood neon against his eyelids and he’d been back in The Chair again, current rushing through his body and lancing his nerves...

“Mr. Barnes, you do not have time for this.”

The voice is calm and cold, commanding. It brings Bucky back to himself, cuts the shaking of legs and arms and he realizes he’s in the cabin, and the bits and pieces of his tactical gear are spread around him, and he realizes: here is another mission; he’s not done yet. 

Jacket, boots, knife, knife, another knife, all slipping into place. Bits of his brain clunking back online, waking up, while his hands move on autopilot, pulling straps taut and checking for full range of movement, weapon accessibility. 

When he’s done, dressed and armed, he steps outside, and there’s an enormous shimmering portal and he can see straight into Hell itself, strange creatures and the sounds of war and death and rubble everywhere and everything is so bright and loud. 

He looks around, a bit desperate. The beach is the same as it has been except...a little flat, the ocean not quite turquoise. The sand is gritty, clinging to his boots,the bird nowhere to be seen. And he doesn’t want to, but he steps forward, into the portal, and as the chill in his bones rises, wraps around him, all he can think is that maybe he’ll get to see Steve, before he dies. 

Or...when he dies. 

In the end, it’s not much different from any other battle. He gets up high, as high as he can, and he takes aim, shoots, again and again, all the while looking for a familiar silhouette with a blue helmet and blonde hair. 

It _is_ different in that his senses feel dialed up, colors too bright, sound intense and full in his ears, and he’s aware of the serum in his blood, his muscles, running along his nerves in a way he’s not used to, and it takes effort to filter it out, stay focused and cool. 

He sees bits and pieces of the fight around him, the most incredible things. Shining portals in every direction, people and creatures pouring through. Enormous people in mech suits and tiny ones flying, and Tony fucking Stark and a glorious, flying horse with eyes that are too intelligent. He sees swords, knives like his own, crackling magic and lightning. It’s glorious. It’s horrible, and the Horde is seemingly endless. 

As he’s overrun eventually, inevitably, it’s like any other fight, scale aside; blood and guts and people dying around him even as he himself scrabbles just to live a bit longer. The Outriders cover the hill, and his ammo is gone, and he takes one more creature out, slamming it with his now useless weapon until it breaks apart. Knives and his fists until that too, is no longer enough. There are simply too many of them, and they pile onto him and his arm is pinned, weapons gone, fingers grasping uselessly for one more knife that isn’t there.

And even now, he has to fight his urge not to roll his eyes because the alien that’s gonna perform the final coup de grâce is really stretching this out, laughing and running the tip of his own knife against Bucky’s throat, edging under his armor. Bucky struggles helplessly, acutely aware that his borrowed time is running out and even now, at the end, he didn’t get to 

Say _hello_ or  
_goodbye_ or  
_I love you._

He didn’t get to say any of it, will never get that chance again. He lets his eyes drift close, and despite the hot line of the blade tracing lines on his skin, blood welling hot and wet, he finds he can ignore that, ignore the noise around him. It’s all nothing, really, compared to everything Hydra did to him, took from him. 

Bucky loses himself in his memories, lets his mind drift, even as his body continues to move, a mindless thing seeking only survival. 

On his belly head back neck bared hair pulled taut

_Slender fingers in his hair, pulling it tight hot mouth scratchy beard bigger hands and no beard, soft golden hair body taut, straining towards warm bare skin soft against his own_

Lightning cracking through the sky, bright, brilliant against even his tightly closed eyes, spots dancing in his eyes, and he blinks a few times because he doesn’t quite believe what he sees. The hand in his hair has gone lax, and Steve is shining and glorious and, Christ, he can relax now because it’s the end of the line for him, but he’s not gonna have to see Steve’s end. 

At the end of it all, at least he’s been spared that, again and again, one of the few mercies he’s been shown. 

And here, at the end, he’s given everything he had. 

He’s...at peace. Sure, his life hasn’t gone the way he’d have liked, but he had some good times, some sweet times, and his brain is his own. 

His body has finally given in, on board with his brain. He’s limp, pliant, waiting for the final blow but he can feel the air pressure building around him and his ears are screaming at him and he squeezes his eyes shut again but oh _shit this feels familiar,_ and with an almost audible pop in his ears the tension around him dissipates. And when he peels his eyes open the air is...gray, gray with ash, and it’s quiet, so quiet all he can hear is the ringing, and fuck that’s his ears, and the last time he saw this...

His mouth works, convulsive, fills with saliva, and he barely manages to turn his head in time, heaves and gets himself propped up on his hands and knees and, fuck, he’s throwing up for real, and there’s not much there — bile and the scraps of his breakfast — _toast dry in his mouth, sand warm against his toes, and the surf in his ears..._

He vomits, again and again, stomach heaving convulsively until finally, whole body shaking, he can push himself back on his heels. Spits, works his mouth, spits again and — yeah, okay, quick inventory, hands following arms, legs in place, torso whole, no imminent danger of kicking the bucket and yeah, okay, okay, _he’s_ not falling apart this time but then...who?

Thanos’s army is gone, but...are...they...

And he’s on his feet and he’s running, legs loose and weak, weaving a crooked path over the uneven ground, and it’s so goddamn familiar, but this time his legs stay, his arms stay — thank God — and then a body collides with his as he’s running, feet so fast it’s really a controlled fall than any conscious, coordinated pattern. The body hits him, and they’re stumbling and he’s falling for real now, no control at all, but then he’s pulled upright and oh, Sam. It’s Sam setting him on his feet with rough care. Eyes meet, and he can see Sam’s mouth moving, but he still can’t hear a goddamn thing, but it’s apparently enough, because they cling to each other and stagger, looking, looking, and there are so many people, he can’t keep track, so many people he doesn’t know, tired and covered in dirt and blood and looking as shocked and disoriented as he feels, but it seems like...

The only ones missing are the Overriders, the army of Thanos, but they keep looking until finally they see _him,_ them, and Sam stops first, Bucky a step or two ahead of him, and he can feel the tension in Sam’s body, see his lips shape a wordless, _fuck,_ and he sees it too, a limp form in battered red and gold armor, arm mangled. But then he sees him, sees _Steve,_ and everything else goes blurry, background noise at best. 

Steve’s beaten and bloody, uniform torn apart and skin ghastly pale under the dirt and blood covering him, but Bucky’s never seen anything better — _and fuck how long has it been?_ — but it doesn’t matter because he’s in Steve’s arms, so strong around him, and he’s crying and so is Steve, tears leaving tracks in the dirt on his cheeks and he hears, “Buck...Buck..Bucky, oh God,” gravelly and low in his ear, and there’s a hot searing kiss brushed across his cheek. 

Then, suddenly, Sam is there, pounding at Steve’s back and shoulder and kind of squashing Bucky in the process, indiscriminate in his affection, so Bucky lets Steve go so Sam can get in there and —

And then it’s like his strings have been cut and he sits, very abruptly in the dirt, and he suddenly feels every one of his, fuck, one hundred and one years — _how long has it been this time?_

Time goes a little funny after that. There’s a kind of mangled debrief, people talking and crying and shouting over each other, and Bucky gets little snatches, here and there, ears still ringing and vision going fuzzy... _five years...a rat in a time machine?...Vormir and Natasha, fuck._

The cold part of his brain is still dialed in, listening, remembering, even as it fails to understand the magnitude of what has happened, the sacrifices that have been made. That’s for the other half of him, later, but he’s pretty well checked out and content with it, content to watch Steve make futile efforts to wrangle this bag of cats he’s apparently summoned. 

The voice, and the man that goes with it, Dr. Strange is there, and there’s some discussion he half understands about sending people back through for now, with golden-orange portals starting to open again, and fuck, Bucky doesn’t have much capacity for anything right now, but he sees that Spider-kid, Queens, _Peter,_ struggling to gather up Stark — _Tony_ — in his arms and he knows the kid has super strength, but he doesn’t have much height on Stark, and Bucky winces to see the disorganized limbs and lolling head and, fuck, this is the part people don’t talk about, don’t want to see or write about. 

He’s seen the dead look on Peter’s face before, and the fluttering, anxious hands of the tearstained blond woman in a blue mech suit, and before Bucky knows it, he’s in front of Peter, gently crossing Tony’s arms, helping to reposition the body so Peter can manage it, and there’s their own portal, opening shimmering and golden in front of them, and he ushers them into it, sending them towards a round faced man in a wrinkled suit, worry writ large on his features, and then they’re gone. 

And then there’s another portal opening, and he gets one, last bewildering look around him, and it hits him, suddenly, that this _entire_ shitshow went down in New fucking Jersey. He wants to laugh, but Steve is herding him through — him and Sam and Wanda, and the now-familiar feeling of pressure steals the breath from his lungs as they step through to their own, unknown destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -General descriptions of violence (Endgame and Infinity War battles  
> -Somewhat graphic descriptions of aftermath of war/violence  
> -Content regarding Tony Stark's death from Endgame.


	3. chapter 3 - still the beast is feeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Battleworld, Steve and Devil pursue their revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more, wonderful art in this chapter!! From both [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041744) and [whatthefoucault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault) <3
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> violence, depressive behaviors/thoughts, passive suicidal behaviors/thoughts  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Battleworld 2018 - somewhere outside of Greenland_

He’s home. What had been...their home, so briefly. 

Before God Doom and Sheriff Strange had come for them. Before the Red King and Doc Green’s machinations. Before Bucky’s...

Steve can barely bring himself to think of it, even now. 

They’re dead now, all of them, or as good as.

He and Devil had left the Mud Kingdom, but rather than return to Doomstadt, to the Killiseum, they had detoured, heading towards the coast, the ports. The restraints that had held them, compelled their obedience, had been severed, but still, Steve is just one man with a dinosaur, and his thirst for revenge does not yet outweigh his caution. 

He hadn’t been able to foresee anything beyond more chains and a return to the Killiseum, if not outright execution should he and Devil return directly to God Doom. Instead they had attacked the web of malice radiating out from God Doom; carefully snipping away at his power base, his image, his myth — slowly and steadily.

When they’d arrived, Steve had stood for a long time on the wet, rough rocks of the coastal shore, feeling the wind lash his face, hearing the waves crash. He’d known that he was stepping onto a path he couldn’t come back from, preparing to commit an irrevocable act. Bringing Devil right along with him. He’d stood long enough, smelling the salt while his cheeks had gone damp from the spray, that Devil had become impatient, huffing and beginning to fling small rocks and rough sand about. 

And then Steve had turned from the ocean, no new insight granted to him, only the same resolution that had hardened him in the Mud Kingdom.

Still, he’d played with Devil one more time, not sure if he’d get the chance again. Burying Devil’s tail and attempting to hide himself from the T. rex while he snapped and snarled; aware it was a foolish thing to do and doing it anyways. 

Soon enough though, Devil had grown restless, head turning towards the horizon, the distant ships, and Steve had sighed then. 

And they’d begun. 

They’d started with a single port. Burning the docked ships, most of the supplies held within, and then the docks after. It’s all been...easier than Steve had anticipated. Devil is terrifying, even in a terrifying land, and Steve is extremely motivated, and between the two of them, surprisingly few individuals are willing to die for God Doom’s food; food that goes straight to Doomstadt rather than to the populace.

With the ocean wind at their back, and the smell of smoke and ash in the air, Steve and Devil continue on, striking the next port. And the next. Devil can travel fast, and neither of them require much rest.

It’s just the beginning. Other suppliers are destroyed; those who procure people to fight, to serve, many through straight up capture, or trickery, or debt. Heads roll on the ground, staring eyes and blood — dark against dirt or sand, glistening drops on long, saw-edged blades of grass; gleaming red against snow. 

After, Steve stalks through the drug labs, destroying the vats of chemicals that keep the captives pliant and the ones that make them aggressive. The ones that numb all pain and the ones that exacerbate it. He destroys it all, kills the chemists, and once again leaves flames in his wake. 

It goes on, and on. They try to move randomly, erratically — God Doom’s sycophants are everywhere, and Steve and Devil are distinctive, for all that dinosaurs are not uncommon on Battleworld. Steve’s rage burns hot at first, and then cold — remote and calculating, and seemingly endless, for all that he still wakes in the night reaching for the solid body that should be next to his, listening for a soft, familiar snore, yearning to, just once more, coax Bucky into rolling over, to feel his warm skin against his own. 

And yet, each day, Steve wakes up, and he and Devil do it again. And again. And again. 

For all their erratic movements, they get closer, and closer. More weapons destroyed. Mines left unmanned, forges going cold, the fields untended. God Doom’s guards killed on sight. And, as they continue, they are less likely to fight alone. Steve and Devil are not the only ones to be forced into the Killiseum, to lose a loved one to God Doom’s bloodthirst, to have their lives destroyed.

Time passes in a blur, a haze of blood and violence; smoke and ash. One fight after another, and another; tenuous allies made and left behind, and suddenly...Steve is looking down at the head of Sheriff Strange, and he is nearly at the end, and Steve feels like he’s barely begun. He feels like it’s been a hundred years, at least, since he stood in the Red King’s castle. 

A hundred years since he cradled Bucky’s arm to his chest.

The gladiators had risen along with the beasts, nearly as soon as they had seen Devil, heard him roar. They’d fought side by side, and they had slaughtered the guards in short order, had torn Arcade into pieces and smashed the drones and the cameras, ripping wires loose and turning those into weapons as well. 

After, a few had scattered, but most of them had joined Steve and Devil in tearing the Killiseum itself down. They’d looked to him for direction, but he had avoided their gazes, unwilling to take responsibility for any life but his own and Devil’s. The bricks had been shattered, chains torn from the ground, bodies of guards piled high, and everything burned until the air was heavy with smoke and brick dust, and his eyes had stung. 

He and Devil had left it behind, had continued on to Castle Doom. Castle Doom...God Doom within...that had almost felt a hollow victory in the end. 

God Doom had gathered his power from cruelty, from fear. From blood, and violence, and forced servitude, and the manic adoration those such as Doc Green had displayed. All the tragic bounty of Battleworld had streamed to him; into him, and Steve and Devil had cut him off, had starved him slowly. 

Without that fuel, that sustenance...God Doom lost his power, his omnipotence. 

Steve had found him alone in the dark, a hollow emperor on his failed throne.

He’d struggled weakly against Steve, frail and ineffective. Steve had thought, when Doom’s head too rolled free of his body that he’d feel a sense of relief, of satisfaction. 

But, in the end, the bulky armor that covered God Doom’s body and much of his head had looked...foolish, oversized without the animating force of the man within it. 

And Steve had felt...nothing at all, as he’d pushed at the head with the tip of his toe, absently cataloguing the stained appearance of his leathers, the gleaming metal of the helmet. He’d turned, drifted towards the entrance of the castle. As he’d left, the faint sunlight had warmed his face, and he’d stumbled. Only Devil’s weight leaning into him had kept him upright.

Steve loses track of the biomes he travels through, consistent only in their endless variety and mindless brutality. He remembers being tireless, the need for revenge sustaining him, driving him forward, a seemingly endless font of energy, brain constantly calculating, measuring, planning until God Doom himself had fallen before him.

Now, he’s become mindless himself, feet continuing forward with no conscious destination in mind. Through desert and endless plains, and over harshly cut stone, until he finds himself in a familiar forest; dark green pines and the whisper of unseen things.

His feet had been light, sustained by the mission, but now, they drag, crunching through the dry, shed leaves, raising the scent of dirt and soft rot.

And suddenly, the small house is in front of him _still standing but worn, gamma and weather and time, God, how long has it been? Wearing at the walls and moss grown over the roof_

and the door swings open, easily, unlocked and then.

Steve is.

Home. In what used to be his home, their home, back. He stands blankly for a minute, before his limbs move, mechanical, turning to their next task. 

Dead leaves and debris have accumulated in the...months? Years? Since they’ve been home, and there are uninvited guests. A nest of rats who have settled under the bed — their bed. Their dappled fur is soft and shining, delicate horns rising from their heads. They hiss as Steve shoos them out, long, muscled tails whipping angrily, and he briefly hopes Devil leaves them be.

They are harmless, small things, and enormous as Devil is, Steve does not trust his warbound to avoid choking on an antler. He continues with his work. 

Steve turns out his knapsack, sorting through the bits and pieces he’s accumulated. Most of his clothes are rags now, and he uses them as such, rubbing down the walls and table, shaking dust from the bed and sweeping so vigorously with the long abandoned broom from behind the door that he has to spend several minutes outside, coughing and sneezing the dust from his lungs. 

Very briefly, he thinks of the inhaler he used to have, back before the serum had rendered it useless to him. 

In the end, the small house is as clean as he can make it, and he settles himself at the table, chair creaking ominously under his weight. The dust has settled, but the air is heavy, and the memories press in upon him, whispering in his ears. Before him...resting on the table...

Steve runs his fingers over smooth, shining metal plates, along the well worn grooves. He smooths the wires and cables emerging from the shoulder, traces the faded red star. His grief is like a well-worn shroud, and he’s grown used to its weight, but it’s newly heavy in this space, their space, the evidence of Bucky’s absence a new wound on his heart. He’d carried Bucky with him, all this time, had been waiting for this moment without even realizing it. 

He lays his head on the hard surface of the table, very slowly. His eyes are hot, burning with tears, and he squeezes them shut.

Scene Art by [LiquidLightz ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944189)(click link for AO3 art post)  


_Here, at this table, they had eaten, knees knocking together. The hare Bucky had brought back tasted strange, but Steve had done his best with salt and unfamiliar herbs, and it was pleasant, to sit and eat together, to make plans for this new life in this strange place, so different from their home._

_“We’re retired! Better learn to cook.” And they’d both tried, and the results had been...mixed but usually edible._

_Bucky had trimmed Steve’s hair, careful, biting his lip and working to keep it even, and he’d ruffled it after, metal fingers gentle through blond strands. And then chapped lips, warm first on Steve’s brow and then his lips._

_Steve had swept up the strands of his hair, and outside, the wind had carried it away, and he’d stood and watched, until Bucky had tugged him back inside, fingers deft as they pulled his clothes from his body, sighs from his lips._

_Here, the wall Bucky had punched, when they had accepted that they would be staying, and here, where he had collapsed into Steve’s arms and they’d cried together, finally mourning their lost families, their friends._

_The bed, just large enough for the two of them, where they’d slept tangled together, where their bodies had come together, in passion and sorrow. Their last time together, Bucky curled on his side, Steve tucked up behind him. Bucky had been beautiful, face slack with pleasure as he’d rubbed his cheek into sheets, mouth open and soft and they had sighed together when Steve first entered him, so slowly and gently._

_They had moved together in the darkness; steadily, inexorably towards their release, exquisitely familiar with each other’s bodies — where to touch, to kiss — building until Steve had cried out, and Bucky had followed him, gasping and gripping Steve close. After, they’d fallen asleep, and it’d been all the sweeter because it had been a night like any other, a routine sharing of their space, their bodies._

_God Doom’s henchmen bursting in, Bucky’s arm disabled, hanging limp even as he’d surged to his feet, his body between Steve and the intruders. Steve had fumbled for his shield, shoved between the bed and the wall. And then the very cells of their bodies, dancing with exquisite agony, rendering them immobile._

_They’d been bound, still naked and vulnerable, and then separated, to live at a distance, used against each other._

Steve comes back to himself, bit by bit. The metal fingertips barely graze his hair, but with his eyes closed, he can pretend, can imagine that the static, cold fingers are Bucky’s in life, gentle through his hair and scratching at his scalp. It’s foolish, indulgent, but he lets himself dream for a minute, and then a minute more, drifting on gentle memories before pushing upright, back on his feet. The ghosts are heavy on his shoulders, but he does not shrug them away. After all, he’s a ghost now himself, has been a ghost all this time and is only now coming to know it, to feel it as the rage and fury that’s animated him drains away, leaving him a hollowed out and empty thing.

He touches the hand once more, fingers lingering over the wrist and palm, and then, he turns himself to his task. 

He has some gasoline left, has been hoarding it without any true intention, plan vague around the edges until he’d arrived here, had seen his home. The sweet odor stings his nose as he makes liberal use of it, drizzling it over the bed and floors, across the table. He’d deliberated for a long time over his shield, his axe, but he’d eventually decided on keeping them. Just in case. The arm he leaves.

It too is an empty thing, but he can’t bear to have it witness this. 

The shield...well. He has no secrets, no illusions kept from it, and the weight of it on his back anchors him a little, just enough that he can drift out of the house. He closes the door with great care, does not allow his hand to linger over the wood. 

Devil is whining in distress, but allows Steve to climb up anyways, and the T. rex calms under Steve’s weight. He does not turn to watch the flames engulfing the small house. It is hard, but he keeps his face turned away, encouraging Devil to start walking.

Scene Art by [whatthefoucault ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault)  


Devil chooses the path, and they move through the forest. Steve’s eyes are dry, and for all that he has the distinct impression that his very heart is burning behind him, his chest is empty and cold.

Steve is ambushed several...days...weeks…? later. He no longer has any sense of time, only that he moves, constantly, inexorably. He rides Devil when Devil is around and consents to be ridden. He runs when he isn’t, and when he can’t run, he walks until his legs won't carry him, and then he sleeps where he falls. 

He doesn't always wake in the same place — Devil will gently push him under cover if he finds him, or cover Steve’s vulnerable body with his own.

Steve has no supplies, had taken nothing with him, but a ghost doesn’t need to eat, and the thought of food nauseates him. He knows, distantly, that he is hungry, can feel the growl and bite of his belly and the ache in his muscles, echoing his dry throat and his worn feet. 

Louder is the serum; it churns through his body, desperate for fuel, something to work with, to consume and burn and regenerate. He denies it; refuses to hunt, to gather, to submit to its whims. He’s a wind-up toy on its last turn, a prisoner of his own body’s vitality, and all he can do is wait, wait, wait for the power to run out. 

Frustrated, Devil had tried to coax Steve out of his apathy; headbutting him, trying to force rest by trapping him with his tail, bringing offerings of deer with curving fangs and even a rabbit, head studded with multiple eyes and enormous, muscled hind legs. 

Devil had whined with distress when Steve had refused them, refused to skin and cook them. The T. rex had eaten his kills, deliberately and messily, refusing to look away from Steve. _Look how good this is, look what you are missing._

Steve, well-versed in the T. rex’s moods, had ignored him, sitting listlessly, hand absently tracing patterns in the dirt, and when the dinosaur had finished his meal, Steve had levered himself back up, pushing on, heedless of Devil’s disapproving growls. 

A distant part of him knows he is being cruel, but Devil can still live a good life, doesn’t need to be tied to Steve, to his ghosts. Steve’s trudging along, distracted by thoughts of his T. rex, how to resolve that loose end, keep poor Devil from trying to look after him. 

This forest is tropical, in comparison to the evergreens he’d settled down in, once upon a time with Bucky. It’s not the first tropical region he’s encountered here, but this one is a little brighter, a little more neon, veins of electric blue and purple twisting through giant, shiny leaves. Creatures race through the trees overhead, a disturbing blend of avian and reptile, hot pink scales blending with orange feathers, quadruped joints oddly articulated and supported with short, snapping wings as they glide from tree to tree, screeching.

Steve’s watching a large beetle, wings an electric buzz as it circles his head, fat body green and metallic, _beautiful_ , when a yelling warrior drops on him from above. He goes flying face first onto the ground, tasting dirt, feeling the shield trapped between his back and his attacker.

He’s not down for long — his body remembers what to do, hips twisting to pop himself free, thighs tensing to bring him back to his feet. But, he’s not at his best, hasn’t been for...and he’s surrounded on all sides in seconds. He gets his shield free, eyes blurring and belly growling most inappropriately. He’s been getting weaker by the day, the serum and the gamma feasting on his muscle and any remaining softness. The neglect he’s visited on himself is glaringly apparent as he struggles to unsheath his axe, limbs uncoordinated. 

Pushing hard with the shield, whipping it around him buys him some space and now his axe is free, and with a sigh he engages his attackers properly. This group advancing on him...they’re fully hulked out, a wide variety of sizes and attributes on display — multiple limbs and plenty of claws to go around, brightly patterned hair, and skin, and clothing, allowing them to fade into the background, sneak up on fools such as Steve 

He still remembers how he’d gloried in battle once, in the feel of his blade slicing through his enemy, the reverberation through his hands, arms, into his shoulders and gut as he’d blocked and countered with the shield. He’d fought for hours, reveling in the feel of his strong body, a blessing even after so many years post serum. 

Now. 

He’s tired, arms heavy and feet slow. He fights by rote, barely getting his shield up in time, feeling the scrape of razor sharp teeth and a long, prehensile tongue scratching at the vibranium, slicing into his hand. Pain blooms in his side, sharp and stinging, and when he turns, there’s another warrior at his flank, unusually small and slender. They grin at him, savage and sure as a long, curved blade is pulled from Steve’s side, driven in again, sliding in high under the ribs.

Steve kills them. His arms obey for him that much, at least, and his small assailant’s head flies loose in a single, swift swing of his shield. He aches where he’s been stabbed, can feel the blood running down his side, taste it in his mouth. Steve can already feel the serum trying to work, but it’s so slow now. He’s been starving it, and it doesn’t have much to work with. He keeps fighting anyways, doesn’t know how to stop, can’t simply lie down and die. But, as he continues to block, counter, the movements of his arms becoming more labored, he realizes too late that he’s being driven, trees thinning and giving way to open ground. 

A violently neon, enormous woman bulls into him, pushes him back several paces, feet sliding in the dirt, and he shoves the shield into her face, has to turn quickly, axe swinging, catching another attacker’s neck and he has to yank hard to pull it free. 

He’d neglected his weapons of late, nearly as much as his body, and he can feel the blade chip. It snaps on his next strike, and he switches to using it as a club, grip shifting. He’s still driven backwards, and he recognizes this particular biome now; the pattern of the rocks and the flavor of the dust. 

He’s stood at the edge of the cliff he knows is nearing and looked down, down down. It’s a long way, too long even for him, even with the shield to cushion the impact. 

He loses ground, bit by bit, and the hulked warriors are endless in their numbers and relentless — two more appearing for each that goes down and then the edge is there, looming large behind him. Steve tosses the shield out, clears a path that fills in as soon as it’s emptied, feels the good solid thump as it lands back in his hands. It hurts now, like it never did before, but...he likes it. 

It makes him feel...alive. And now, surrounded, no way out, no Bucky, no Devil to save him — _he could call_ — but he feels his gut turn over and kick up, his heartbeat accelerate, an appropriate sympathetic response and it feels fucking good.

 _It feels so good to be afraid._

The enormous individual he’s fighting now has too many arms, too many legs, and he can’t see the person under the hulk state, the multiple limbs that wrap around Steve like a lover, crushing him, lifting him from his feet. They scream directly into his face, and Steve stares into a maw, row after row of needle-like teeth, noxious venom dripping from the tips. He screams back, can taste the iron in his throat. 

He screams again, when he is flung away, and he goes over the edge, into nothing. 

He falls. His body is broken; he can feel it. The serum is doing its best — he can feel the sluggish movement of his bones under his skin, but he’s _tired_ , brief shot of adrenaline gone like it’d never happened, and instead of trying to position the shield, shape his body to dispel some force, fucking something, anything, to help him survive just a little longer, he...

Relaxes. His body goes limp, arcing impossibly as he continues to fall, vision sparking around the edges, slow fade to black lips moving, shaping wordless sounds, a child’s prayer, a futile litany —

 _Bucky...Bucky. I’m coming, my Bucky, I’m coming._

His eyes stop seeing, and he can feel the air being pressed from his lungs, but there are kind gray eyes and the feeling of a smooth, metallic hand in his own written across his heart, and Steve’s not afraid anymore. He opens his arms. His fingers loosen, and he lets the remains of the axe go. Releases the shield. And falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:**  
>  -General descriptions of violence.  
> -Steve engages in depressive and passively suicidal thoughts and behaviors, predominantly illustrated by self-neglect, risky behaviors in battle, and feelings of emptiness. I'd characterize it as being on the milder end, but this is a rough time and everyone's mental health gauge rests in a different place, so please take care with reading. Mental Health resources linked below.
> 
>  **Suicide Prevention & Mental Health Resources**  
> The [National Suicide Prevention Lifeline](https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/) is (800)-273-8255 and is available 24/7.  
> The [Crisis Text Line](https://www.crisistextline.org/) is also available 24/7 for texting: (US/Canada 741741, UK 85258, Ireland 50808), covers other mental health crises as well.


	4. chapter 4 - the day the earth stood still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Earth, Bucky goes to a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> canon character death, panic attack, PTSD
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).  
> 

_Earth 2023 - An EZ Motel somewhere in Georgia_

They get three days. 

The trip through the portal is brief, straight into a parking lot, and before Bucky can quite orient himself, he’s being unceremoniously stuffed into a truck seemingly composed largely of rust and chipping blue paint. Wanda and Sam cram in after him, and then Steve swings in on the other side, face stained with dirt. The engine sputters once, twice, and then they’re pulling out, and Bucky would like to know who the hell has been letting Steve drive, let alone on _streets with other people_ because the man sure as shit had not had a license last time he’d checked. 

Bucky’s tired though, and he can’t be bothered to get too riled, and time skips again and Steve explains, kind of, and Bucky doesn’t really follow but there’s something about making sure supplies and vehicles and what all had been waiting for all the people they’d relocated, and Steve would have brought them to his place, but he’d been living at the Avenger’s compound. And apparently that was the wreckage they’d fought on, so now Steve is effectively homeless, but he doesn’t want them to _worry,_ he has a plan, and this actually _is_ his truck, but Strange’s army of robed minions made sure it was stocked...and Bucky lays his hand on Steve’s thigh, and it’s enough to settle Steve down, put his attention back on the road, where it was sorely needed. 

Quiet hangs over the cabin of the truck, and when Steve’s not clumsily shifting gears, his own hand covers Bucky’s. It’s hot and a little sticky but _wonderful_ , and Bucky’s light-headed, feels fuzzy and slow as they drive down an endless, unremarkable highway. Sam’s shoved against his other side, snoring softly, and Wanda’s head is tipped against the window, and the peace that settles over them feels fragile, suspended like a soap bubble. 

Bucky’s not sure how much time passes, but when the gas meter starts ticking towards red and the truck starts weaving steadily, Bucky pushes at Steve’s shoulder until he pulls over at the next service station. Thankfully, Steve has money, produces a thick wad of cash from the glovebox. Bucky buys a tank of gas and bottles of cold water, and a truly ridiculous amount of snacks, a little fascinated by the bright packages and softly buzzing lights. 

Sam jerks awake, and everyone rotates through the bathroom, washing faces and pulling off the most uncomfortable bits of their filthy armor, tossing it all into the bed of the truck with the piles of spent weapons, inconspicuously — Bucky can’t suppress a snort — hidden under a loosely secured sheet. At least they’re seemingly in the middle of nowhere. 

When they pile back into the truck, Bucky shoves Steve into the middle and takes over at the wheel. Bucky’s hands are shaking slightly — he doesn’t remember the last time he drove, but his muscle memory takes over, and before he knows it, the truck is rattling along. Sam systematically crunches his way through an entire bag of sour cream and cheddar chips and two protein bars, while Wanda sucks on a sour gummy worm for a truly alarming period of time. Steve gently takes her hand when she won’t stop tapping on the dashboard, long, broken fingernails producing a disjointed rhythm. 

And Steve...Steve’s legs jiggle restlessly, and Bucky risks taking his hand off the wheel long enough to smack at him until he gets the hint and dives into the snacks. Steve makes short work of the remaining protein bars, and then the candy bars. The spell from before is broken, and Steve and Sam and Wanda chatter endlessly — it’s a weird mix, Cliff’s notes of the last five years and all the weird shit they’d tried and did and said, and everyone carefully avoiding the big bads — the deaths and the losses and what the fuck everyone is going to do from here on out. 

_Bucky’s got a damn good idea of what he’s going to be doing, he’s going to be fucking retiring, and if he’s gotta go to another planet to make that happen, he will, and hopefully he can get Steve to go with him, because the circles under his eyes are huge and his jaw is tight enough to break and..._

They stop again, long enough for Bucky to drink an entire bottled frappuccino, the sugar and caffeine thrilling deliciously through him. Sam throws up everything he’s eaten, takes cautious sips from the water Bucky brings him, and then they’re driving again, Steve back at the wheel. 

The sky turns, from deep bright blue to streaks of orange and pink, and as it goes dark, Steve pulls into the parking lot of a motel, lit by a flickering sign for an EZ Stay. 

Sam books some rooms, one with a suite, and, under Wanda’s watchful eye, Bucky and Steve smuggle in all the shit from the back of the truck. Wanda and Sam disappear into their own rooms, and Bucky takes in his and Steve’s, bemused. The weaponry and discarded armor is in stark contrast against the floral comforter of their second bed, and the entire room is clean despite an alarming commitment to Pepto-Bismol pink. 

Time goes a little soft again, and they’re in the shower together, and Bucky’s scrubbing Steve down with chemical-smelling gardenia soap, and fuck, Steve’s thigh is a mess but it’s already coming together, so Bucky just gets it as clean as he can, and after, Steve’s hands are working through Bucky’s hair, gentle and efficient, and somehow they’re both crying again, under the water until it goes cold. And then Bucky kicks Steve out because he needs a few minutes to just fucking sit in the bottom of the tub unobserved and quietly shake. Because a few hours ago, he had been thinking about taking a nap in the sunshine, and now he’s in a crappy motel in Georgia and it’s just...a lot.

When he clambers out, there’s a toothbrush and other toiletries, underwear, and a bag of clothes; he picks through it, ends up in an enormous lavender t-shirt. It comes to his knees, which is good because there were no pants in the bag. It’s bedecked with a slightly cross-eyed kitten in a basket. He brushes his teeth and squeezes water from his hair by rote, and the cursory check of his body shows the serum is already doing its job — cuts and bruises fading — while his hair leaves damp trails as it brushes against his shoulders. 

The sight of his face and bearded, tanned skin is suddenly so strange to him; as are his bare knees and dark hair under flickering fluorescent lights, and he can’t look anymore, staggers out to find that everyone has apparently assembled again _(heh)_ and everyone else looks just as shell shocked as he feels. Steve’s bag apparently had the pants — he’s in ragged blue sweatpants but no shirt — and Bucky wants to put his mouth on Steve’s throat and cover his bruises with arnica even though he knows they’ll heal, are already healing. 

Wanda’s hair is in a damp, messy braid, and her t-shirt is the pink twin to his, with a bunny instead of a kitten. Sam’s stars-and-stripes joggers are a size or two too small, but he at least has a shirt, soft purple and moth-eaten. There’s pizza, and some reality show’s on the TV, and Bucky digs through the duffle bags until he finds a pair of basketball shorts for himself. He tosses a t-shirt at Steve, deliberately selecting something small and stretchy. 

Properly covered, they all stuff their faces and clean the heap of weapons, quietly passing a knife, working together to find a missing sheath. Bucky feels more settled with each gun, each knife he sorts out. Most of the armor is beyond help, and Bucky feels his heart break a little when he sees Steve picking at the remains of the shield, fingers trembling on blood stained leather. 

That night, they all sleep together in a heap on the bed farthest from the door. The neon lights from the motel sign fall on Bucky’s face through the parted curtains, and his hand curls around a rogue knife. He tries hard to think of nothing at all, breathing in and out in time with Steve’s wheezy snore in his ear — _when did that come back?_ — until sleep falls over him. 

The next day is a bit of a gut punch, beginning with a piss poor performance at the motel’s continental breakfast. It had started well enough, and Bucky had been completely sold on the waffles — the hiss of the batter and the satisfying flip of the iron. And the waffle itself — hot, tender, and crisp, with the almost-sickly sweet syrup. He’d eaten himself silly; eggs and crisp bacon, and fruit, and waffle after waffle after waffle, nearly hypnotized watching the light on the iron glow red, then green and, damn, he _knows_ the time he spent on the beach wasn’t real, but he feels like he’d been hungry the whole time, his meals a flat, empty memory.

Bucky is asked to leave after the staff has to replenish the waffle batter for the fourth time, and he goes, palming the cigarettes he’d snuck into the snacks at the gas station. 

So, he misses the rest — Sam beginning to cry halfway through, heaving, silent gulps and tears falling into his eggs. Steve’s helpless, awkward attempts at comfort ignored in favor of a second plate of hash browns. Wanda stuffing her pockets with jelly packets and hard-boiled eggs, curling her other arm protectively around her own waffles. 

Bucky hadn’t been able to tolerate the motel room – it was too close, too pink — so he’d snuck out to the pool, technically closed but not yet drained, and it was easy enough to jiggle the lock open and slide through the creaking gates.One eye peeled for motel staff, Bucky had dipped his bare feet in the pool, lit up a cigarette, and settled in. 

He tries to think, swishing his feet in the water, but it’s tepid in comparison to the ocean, and his thoughts swirl, flicking from one thing to another — the taste of maple syrup and ash, the flutter of wings, and a vague memory of his dreams last night — _snow, cold against his legs, arm behind his back and_ — 

He frowns. He’s never remembered much of his fall from the train or time in the snow — hazy impressions of adrenaline and a sick, sharp pain in his arm, but his first real memories of the Asset beyond pain are metal fingers, his own, shining and curling reflexively around the throat of a hapless Hydra scientist. 

He’s read his records — he knows enough to be grateful for that little lapse. He sure as shit hasn’t been able to forget much of anything else since. And yet...he inhales, feels the rasp of smoke deep in his lungs. They’d felt like memories, not the reconstructed hash his brain usually offers to him when he’s asleep. 

Bucky’s reverie is interrupted by his erstwhile companions, also newly-banned from the continental breakfast. He forgives the interruption when Sam offers him a slice of cold, left-over pizza, and _God_ he has to keep himself from moaning with the first bite. It’s as good as everything else he’s eaten since coming back — chewy crust and the bright acid of tomatoes and salty olives. 

And Sam smiles at him, a little shy and knowing, and Bucky’s struck again by how there’s a new sense of...familiarity between them, a comfort that hadn’t been there before the battle in Wakanda. 

They’d been friendly enough, if not exactly _friends_ , once Sam had gotten over his car and Bucky had gotten over the...general embarrassment of his behavior as the Winter Soldier, deserved or not. Now Bucky’s got the echo of Sam’s stories in his brain — Sam’s sister and mother; his more absurd adventures in pararescue; and Riley, a man seemingly as large, ridiculous, and blond as Steve. 

Bucky shakes his head, lights another cigarette. Puts it out when he’s the recipient of three disapproving looks. He thinks idly that they should probably...debrief, or make some kind of fucking plan, exactly what he doesn’t know, and it seems that no one else does either because instead they all just sit around, chewing. 

The silence is beginning to feel oppressive when Steve’s phone shrills to life; Bucky startles like a cat, sending the pizza box flying in the pool. Sam blatantly eavesdrops on Steve’s end of the conversation, while Wanda sends a curling thread of magic out, delicately wrapping it around the pizza box and pulling it from the pool. 

Bucky grins. He’s only seen Wanda use her powers in combat before, smashing cars and throwing shit around. It’s...fun seeing her use it for smaller things. “That seems handy.” 

She grins back, sudden and sharp, “It can be!” Before Bucky can say anything, she sends it shuttling towards Steve; it chases Steve around, whose voice remains calm and level even as he dodges the dripping box with consummate grace, making desperate _knock it off _gestures at Wanda, who pretends to be extremely interested in the construction of the lounge chairs.__

__She lets the box drop just as Steve goes to punch it, and Bucky laughs outright, enjoying the flustered look on his face as the soggy box falls on his feet, fist outstretched, tiny phone still at his ear. Wanda smiles, completely unperturbed by Steve, and it’s familiar, and not._ _

__Bucky flexes his fingers. He remembers...braiding Wanda’s hair and making her tea, and sharing secrets in the sunshine, but..._ _

__“Wanda?” His voice is smaller than he means it to be._ _

__“Mm?” She comes to sit by him, bare feet sliding into the water. Bucky’s not sure what his question is, but he tries._ _

__“Were...we...friends?” He winces, the words sound so juvenile, and _confusing,_ but Wanda takes it in stride, seems to understand. _ _

__“We _are_ friends.” And she pats his shoulder, the left one. “Bucky, you watched my kids. You let them _draw_ on your arm! Tommy threw up on you. Twice!” _ _

__“...Your...kids?”_ _

__Wanda’s brow furrows “You...don’t remember?” Her hand slides off his shoulder, trails over her abdomen. Her next words are barely audible “It felt...so real.”_ _

__“No! Um, no I don’t, mine was...” Bucky’s babbling, but the look on Wanda’s face is scaring him, so remote and cold, with flickers of red sparking deep in her irises_ _

__“I lived on a beach. Alone. You visited me, a lot.” He keeps talking “We um, _were_ friends, you didn’t have kids though, we’d just...hang out. Bitched, mostly, truth be told.” Her eyes flicker, an infinitesimal change and Bucky leans against her “Wanda, you told me shit I will _never_ be able to forget about Vision, you don’t get to walk away from me now.” _ _

__It works. Wanda’s face flushes red and she starts rambling about time bubbles and shared consciousnesses and other things that Bucky doesn’t understand entirely._ _

__But, he’s occupied with his own, disturbing thoughts. He’s seen the Matrix — he’d taken his pop culture education seriously — and now...talking to Wanda...the whole experience suddenly seems less relaxing, and more ominous. Feeling absently at the back of his neck, his chest, half-searching for mysterious ports, he wonders if maybe he’d spent the entire time in a tank while aliens siphoned his energy._ _

__Bucky’s dragged abruptly back into the real world at an outburst of raised voices, Wanda squeezing his shoulder hard. And Bucky’s on his feet, adrenaline surging, but oh, it’s Steve. Steve and Sam and they’re...fighting?_ _

__Sam’s jaw is clenched with anger, and his eyes are hot, fists tight “Why the _fuck_ are we going to a funeral for Tony? What about Natasha? What about Vision? Didn’t Thor’s _brother_ die and half of his people?” Bucky can feel Wanda go still at his side, and Sam clutches at Steve’s arms, voice rough “Why did you let her go? _Why_?” _ _

__Steve’s words are measured, dropping with careful control “I...” He squares his shoulders “I didn’t know.” Then his face crumples, tears falling fast and hard. “I didn’t _ask._ ” _ _

__They’re hugging now, kind of, and Bucky could hear them if he wanted — they’re kind of quietly cry-fighting. It’s intensely uncomfortable to watch, so he and Wanda vamoose as quietly as they can because it seems like the Captain and the Falcon are going to be able to work it out with their words instead of property damage._ _

__Sam and Steve come back a little later, Sam red-eyed and Steve a total mess — hair fucked up, nose swollen — but they’re at ease, and Steve fills them in for real this time. There’s gonna be a funeral for Stark, and there are Infinity stones to return, plus a whole list of other shit that’s got to get done._ _

__Apparently the Avengers aren’t official anymore, and Steve just keeps going on ad-nauseum, and Bucky can’t focus on the minutiae, instead taking the opportunity to stare at Steve. He looks terrible after crying, he always does, but Bucky hadn’t thought he’d get to do this again, look focused and serious while Steve explains a mission, all while thinking of how much he wants to kiss him, press his lips to the little frown at the corner of his mouth, poke at the tight muscles of his jaw until he fucking relaxes and then hold him close, find him a cold wet cloth for his eyes and his nose, but he doesn’t do those things because, inappropriateness aside..._ _

__Well, they’d barely been finding their way back to each other, in Wakanda, before Steve had come down on them with aliens, and then Bucky had _died_ for five more years, and they’d barely had a minute alone. But apparently it’s in Bucky Barnes’s DNA, this need to soothe Steve Rogers, to pull him close and comfort him. _ _

__He realizes he’s clenching his own jaw and his arm has started to whir, and he has to make a conscious effort to stop both, a wasted effort because Steve trails off and looks around expectantly for questions. Wanda looks around at them all — disheveled and sad looking, mostly sprawled on unfortunate motel furniture. She plucks at her own hair, dark roots and bright red intertwined. Her voice is flat, “We look like shit.”_ _

__And they do, and they’re obviously not in a fit state to be going to any kind of gathering, let alone a funeral. So there are more showers, more digging through the bags until everyone is wearing something that covers the right parts of their bodies. Bucky stays in his cat t-shirt after a cursory sniff, digs up a pair of too-big jeans._ _

__There aren’t any extra shoes, so he stuffs his feet back into his combat boots, and, _ugh _, no socks either, and he’s struck with a sudden, visceral urge for the beach, bare toes in warm sand.___ _

____But, instead he piles back into the truck with the others, and it’s disgusting — oil soaked floor mats and stained upholstery, and he must have been really out of it not to notice earlier, but he can’t worry about it now because they’re pulling into the parking lot of a Target, and the transition is surreal — one minute driving down a country road and the next though a strip mall with bright signs and too many cars._ _ _ _

____Target itself is...a lot. Sam gets a cart, pushes it with the intensity of a man on his final mission, and they go through the store, tossing in packages of socks and underwear. Bucky tries to hold it together against the bizarre normality of it all, of attending to their needs and planning for a future that will include clean socks and regular meals not produced by wizard shenanigans._ _ _ _

____He holds it together long enough to drag some clothes off the racks — _fuck,_ what size even is he? _ _ _ _

____In the dressing room, the lighting is unkind, showing the hollows under his eyes and cheeks, bruises faded but visible, and he undresses automatically, pulling off his t-shirt, then peeling his jeans down his thighs, getting them stuck over his boots because he hadn’t undone the laces first. Next thing he knows, he’s on the ground, shaking, and his eyes are stinging because _fuck what the actual fuck_ — _ _ _ _

____He’d been in Wakanda, and then he’d been _dead_ or whatever, and then in New fucking Jersey, and now his brain is catching up with his body, and he’s realizing he...never stopped fighting. _ _ _ _

____“Oh, _Buck,_ ” in Steve’s soft voice as he closes the dressing room door behind himself. _Very sloppy, bad situational awareness_ — but Bucky’s warm for a brief moment, Steve’s arms strong around him. _ _ _ _

____Steve gets Bucky’s boots off, and then his jeans, and he starts handing him clothes, waiting patiently for Bucky to take each item. The fluorescent lights are _not_ flattering, though Bucky is hardly at his best, and what the fuck do you wear to the funeral of a man who tried to destroy you, even as you’d destroyed him? _ _ _ _

____There hadn’t been much on the racks to choose from, and there’s a distinct abundance of _awkward-regret-hate _up for offer. The season is all wrong, bikins and shorts and sunglasses and, Christ, Bucky has a wild moment where he imagines himself, floral swim trunks and sunglasses, relaxing while Tony fucking Stark goes underground. It’s wildly inappropriate, and he laughs despite himself, earning a soft smile from Steve, who very clearly Does Not Want To Know.___ _ _ _

______Jeans work well enough, and he finds a few pairs that fit okay, plus shirts — long sleeve and soft in a rainbow of colors. But, they’re on a mission, and there are no other stores with clothes nearby, so Steve starts shoving more things at Bucky, various items in every permutation of black and gray._ _ _ _ _ _

______Dress shirts are limited. Nothing fits over his arm, and Steve stuffs him into increasingly large blazers, until Bucky finally stops him because he will _not_ wear a knee-length blazer just to cover his fucking arm. Steve (barely) stops him from dramatically ripping the sleeves off, and instead Bucky dramatically throws the blazer over the wall into Sam’s dressing room._ _ _ _ _ _

______He ends up in a black bomber jacket with strangely roomy sleeves, figures he can zip it up over a t-shirt and call it good. Wanda had dumped the first black dress she’d touched into the cart in a perfunctory fashion. Sam had found a blazer and nicely fitting dress pants, and Bucky realizes Steve forgot those, but he has no desire to return to the fluorescent hell of the dressing room._ _ _ _ _ _

______When they check out, their total is alarmingly high, but Steve produces more cash, and they dress in their clearance rack goods in the bathroom, ripping off tags and stuffing their donated pajamas into bags, and then they all go to Starbucks. Bucky thinks he’d maybe like to drink a hundred iced coffees, the caffeine and sugar and icy-cold hitting just right in his brain._ _ _ _ _ _

______There’s more errands after that, but it’s a blur that Bucky floats through, his draw to Steve the only tether keeping him from drifting away entirely. Steve’s mostly focused on his to-do list, painstakingly written on motel stationery, and Bucky’d feel slighted but for the occasional moments when Steve looks up, catches Bucky staring. And then...the smile on Steve’s face, and the warmth in his eyes, oh, it’s like _home_ to Bucky in a way nothing else is, pulling him ever closer. _ _ _ _ _ _

______Hours later, back at the motel, he and Steve are alone for the first time and it’s what he’s been wanting, what he’s been desperate for ever since he came back through that portal. Now that they’re here though...he finds he’s...nervous, almost shy, and he can’t settle. He finds himself sorting through his new clothing, folding jeans and shirts, casting glimpses at Steve sidelong._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve’s stretched out on the bed, ankles crossed, poking at his phone, looking large and comfortable against the rumpled linens, and Bucky can’t catch his breath because _fuck_ it’s all so weird, he hadn’t even decided if he was ready to leave Wakanda, and here he is, and he can feel Steve’s gaze on his back and he — _ _ _ _ _ _

______Moves the t-shirts to a different drawer. Refolds the jeans. Carefully pairs socks. And then he takes them apart and starts again, and he’s paralzyed, unable to turn around until..._ _ _ _ _ _

______Big arms around his waist and breath hot against his neck, and Steve’s murmuring to him, gentle nonsense, and Bucky realizes he is shaking _again, fuck,_ clutching a pile of boxer shorts to his chest, and he’s panting, unable to catch a full breath, and somehow they’re on the bed together._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve’s hand is soft in his hair, and his heartbeat is steady under Bucky’s head. And Bucky’s saved because Steve’s talking and Bucky doesn’t even have to look at his face, can just inhale the scent of fake gardenias and a hint of sweat underneath._ _ _ _ _ _

______“God, Buck, things have been so fucked up...I didn’t think...”And Steve’s fingers tighten for a second, and Bucky’s scalp stings, and he’s back on the beach _beak sharp in his hair_ and Steve’s still talking, narrating how he spent the entire five years Bucky has missed. _ _ _ _ _ _

______“...I ran this therapy group...”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky’s head snaps up, and he stares at Steve. He can barely get the words out._ _ _ _ _ _

______“They...let...you?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve smiles at him, and fuck, that grin — not his amiable, bland Captain America pearly whites trotted out for the press (and sometimes even people he’s planning to punch later.) This is the sharp, hungry grin that Bucky fell in love with in 1934, the grin Steve gets when he’s looking at something he likes, something he wants. It distracts Bucky for a minute, but just a minute because what Steve is saying fully soaks in and Bucky’s pushing at Steve’s chest, mouth running._ _ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______“Steven Grant Rogers, your issues have issues! Who the hell let you be in charge of that group? YOU need therapy! You probably made them need MORE therapy!”_ _ _ _ _ _

______And Bucky slaps Steve’s ridiculously large chest for emphasis._ _ _ _ _ _

______“WE were gonna go to therapy! Remember?” And then Bucky snorts and can’t stop laughing because it’s totally absurd, and he can feel Steve’s chest shaking under him, and when Bucky finally gets control of himself and can look at Steve without laughing...well._ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky’s breath catches because Steve’s looking back, and his eyes...bright,wet with tears, and so intense, even as his hands run gentle over Bucky’s sides, lingering over his hips._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve’s voice is soft. “Yeah Buck, I remember. Together, huh?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______And his thumb slips under the edge of Bucky’s t-shirt, and it’s calloused against Bucky’ hip and _so warm,_ and Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut. Because every nerve in his body feels like it’s waking up._ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky hadn’t been joking about the therapy, then or now. But this...this is good, he feels alive and so real, real in a way he hasn’t felt since watching his own body disintegrate._ _ _ _ _ _

______Back then, he’d been foolish enough to be excited when Steve had landed back on Wakanda. Sure, yes, alien fleet coming, very bad, but he hadn’t thought it’d be more than Steve’s usual shit — setting the world on fire and then sticking his friends (allies) with clean-up duty. He’d been ready to help Steve clean up and then..._ _ _ _ _ _

______Well, it’d taken them time, before; stolen moments and phone calls across time zones, but he and Steve had been finding their way back to each other. Before Thanos...they’d shared a kiss, their first in nearly 80 years, a gentle, hesitant thing: a press of lips and warm, mingled breath. It’d been precious, a memory Bucky had hoarded and taken out, again and again, to look over and examine, and he’d been so fucking hopeful._ _ _ _ _ _

______Hopeful enough that when Steve had shown up tailed by a fleet of next-level asshole aliens, Bucky’s first, wildly inappropriate impulse had been to mourn for his newly awakened libido._ _ _ _ _ _

______And now...Bucky’s wrapped pretty thoroughly around Steve, but the distance between them — inches at most — suddenly feels like a chasm, years and bizarre experiences and time, too much time, and Bucky feels like he’s standing at the edge, untethered and _fuck_ they’ve lost so much time. _ _ _ _ _ _

______He kisses Steve, sudden, and their teeth click together. Steve tries to laugh — a small, breathy sound that Bucky swallows down. Bucky’s suddenly so fucking greedy for Steve’s laughter, his love, the little noises he hasn’t heard since the forties, anything Bucky can pull from him and keep close._ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky kisses him again, a second time, and a third. And it makes his head spin — the feel of Steve’s mouth under his; warm and wet, the rise and fall of Steve’s chest. He pulls at Steve’s shirt, his ugly sweatpants, hands diving under, moving restlessly over warm skin. Distantly, he’s aware of Steve’s hands roaming up and down his back, sliding down to curve over his ass. Bucky’s falling into Steve, the chasm between them closing with each warm breath, each shared sigh, calloused hands tracing old memories._ _ _ _ _ _

______It’s good, so good and Bucky wants to sink in, savor it all, but he can’t shake the edge of worry riding him, the feeling that he’s been here, again and again, only to lose it each time._ _ _ _ _ _

______It pushes him, drives him to nip frantically at Steve’s lips, under his jaw, and Steve’s hands on him still feel good but he needs more. He’s so fucking hungry. It’s curling in his gut, nausea thrilling at the edges, but Bucky pushes it down, feels Steve hard against him, hips moving restlessly and he’s...lost._ _ _ _ _ _

______Waves crashing over him, and he can feel fingers in his hair, gentle, _no,_ rough, sharp against his scalp, and the worry is tipping into sick, but he wants this, _so badly,_ can’t walk away and he pushes back against the waves, the echoed memory of a metal arm hot in the sun, and he grinds against Steve, half hard and painful, teeth sinking into Steve’s shoulder, trapezius thick and unyielding as his metal hand clenches convulsively, the sound of fabric tearing, and _fuck_ if only Bucky could crawl right into him, let Steve keep him safe, close forever. And then he tastes iron in his mouth and he gags, hard, gorge rising and then..._ _ _ _ _ _

______A large hand, firm on his hip, another on the back of his neck, not moving, holding him still — an anchor, letting him settle, and he can hear Steve, distantly, through the sickness in his gut, and the rushing in his ears is diminishing, washing away. He can’t hear what Steve is saying, but his voice is gentle, and gradually, gradually Bucky comes back to himself, back to Steve and their pink motel room, and he’s pushed himself up on Steve’s chest. Steve is looking a little squashed, imprint of Bucky’s teeth purple on his shoulder, and the worry in his eyes, his furrowed brows, brings Bucky all the way back, his hearing rushing back online. Bucky doesn’t recognize his own voice, a rough whisper,_ _ _ _ _ _

______“...Steve? Oh _fuck_ Oh Stevie...I’m sorry, I’m sorry...I...” and he trails off, still half sick, not even sure how to begin explaining where his mind has been, but Steve picks up where he left off, hand sliding up Bucky’ back, moving in small, soothing circles._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Hey, hey, honey, hey, try to calm down, okay?” and Bucky tries — breath in, breath out — and Steve keeps talking, hand moving slowly around and around. “Buck, you don’t have to push yourself...I know...it’s been five years for me, but it hasn’t been that for you, huh?” Bucky shakes his head, wordless. He wants to tell Steve about the beach, the strange bird and the gentle monotony, but it doesn’t feel like the time. He’s not ready and it feels like a dream, slipping away at the edges whenever he tries to quantify it, and anyways Steve is still talking “...we got time now, you don’t have to worry, it’s going to be fine.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky’s heart rate is back to something approaching normal, as normal as it ever is, and he feels it turn over, settle back in his chest where it belongs as he studies Steve’s face — different but familiar, still beloved. Bucky lets his hands slip off Steve’s chest, bracketing him, leaning in. Slowly, he kisses one furrowed brow, then the other. A peck to the lines of Steve’s forehead, deeper than they’d been. There are creases at the corners of Steve’s eyes and mouth, and they’re not happy ones, but Bucky drops kisses there anyways, feather-light. More kisses to his jaw, slightly stubbled._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I miss the beard.” Bucky mumbles, between kisses, dropping another over the bite mark, purple already fading._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve grins, bright. “Oh yeah? You liked that?” And Bucky squirms because Steve _knows_ he did, had been smugly pleased in Wakanda when Bucky had been unable to keep his hands off it, petting and tugging gently at it. He chooses not to dignify that with a response, presses another kiss to Steve’s mouth to shut him up and, _oh_ , it’s everything Bucky’s wanted. Steve’s lips are chapped and warm under his, and the last bits of uneasiness smooth away as he falls into it, can’t resist sneaking another, and another, until he’s hazy and soft with it. _ _ _ _ _ _

______That night, Bucky leaves the knife under the pillow._ _ _ _ _ _

______In the morning, Bucky feels...good, for the first time. The polyester smell of the bedspread makes his nose wrinkle, but the view....Steve’s hair is a mess, and he’s drooling a bit, one big arm clutching Bucky to him like a teddy. He looks good. Soft and young, relaxed in sleep, the new, unhappy creases around his mouth and eyes smoothed away. Bucky considers, briefly, going back to sleep, pretending for just a little bit longer that it’s just the two of them, but he can’t — it hasn’t been the two of them ever since Azzano. They have obligations, so he pokes Steve awake, then herds him into the shower._ _ _ _ _ _

______He hesitates for a minute until Steve reaches for him, damp from the first spray of water and still a little sleep-muddled, and well, they don’t have to rush _that_ much. _ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky had attempted to enter the small shower with some dignity and maybe even a hint of sex appeal, but instead the slimy shower curtain had clung stubbornly to his legs, and he’d flailed frantically until it had come loose, repelled by the texture and stained appearance. Steve had woken up enough to laugh at Bucky, long and hard, and Bucky is disgusted that it doesn’t make him less appealing._ _ _ _ _ _

______Curtain aside, the tub shower is small and dingy, and they have to carefully trade places under the water, but it’s not terrible and Bucky doesn’t mind too much._ _ _ _ _ _

______He minds even less when Steve pulls him back against his chest, though he makes a halfhearted attempt to keep them on track. “Steve...bud, I don’t know, we gotta...” His protest cuts off with a gasp as Steve nips at his throat, sharp and sweet, hands sliding over his chest, curving possessive around his hip._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Buck, shhhh come on, just...?” More kisses down Bucky’s throat, then teeth firm in Bucky’s shoulder, a mirror to where Bucky had left his mark last night. “Bucky, _fuck_ , please...can I..?” Bucky can feel the shift in Steve’s mood, the desperation in the breathy pleading hot against his ear._ _ _ _ _ _

______It’s probably a piss-poor idea, but Bucky knows what it feels like, that moment on a precipice where you’re desperate for something, anything to anchor you, keep you from spinning over the edge and into the unknown. He can’t deny Steve, can’t deny him a few more moments on solid ground, and he can feel the tension increasing, Steve hovering on a threshold, waiting for Bucky’s permission._ _ _ _ _ _

______And Bucky gives it, his nod converting abruptly into a groan as Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock, coaxes him into hardness with smooth, sure strokes. His lips return to Bucky’s neck, again and again, little sucking kisses over his pulse, down to his clavicle, and Bucky can feel his eyes flutter close, worries sliding away. Steve’s body behind him is solid, and his hands on Bucky’s body are gentle and confident and after earlier...well, it feels like an apology. It feels like...a promise. It feels fucking good, and Bucky comes with his head tipped back on Steve’s shoulder, gasping with pleasure while Steve murmurs “God, _fuck_ , look at you, so perfect, so... _ugh_...fuckin’ lucky”. They have a brief, perfect moment, Bucky lightheaded, Steve still nuzzling at him, smugly satisfied. _ _ _ _ _ _

______When the hot water finally gives out, they have to scrub hurriedly, giggling and swearing under the cold spray like they’re kids again, and Bucky should have known better, because agreeing to shower with Steve has literally never resulted in them saving time or hot water._ _ _ _ _ _

______The lighter mood doesn’t last — Steve is not thrilled with Bucky’s lack of appropriate pants, and less thrilled when Bucky points (very helpfully) that Steve didn’t bring him any in the dressing room. Bucky can’t bring himself to care too much. He himself is not particularly happy with the large amount of khaki Steve seems to have gravitated to while he was...away, but regardless, they all get themselves dressed and re-convene with Sam and Wanda out in the parking lot._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sam looks nice, cobbled-together suit pressed and fitting well. He smirks at Bucky’s skinny jeans but holds the commentary when Bucky smacks at him, jerking his head at Steve. Wanda is subdued, dressed in layers of draping black, and Bucky has to shut the truck door with care to avoid trapping the fabric._ _ _ _ _ _

______They eat breakfast carefully on the road, food held away from their bodies. The mood is somber, and the shit radio reception does little to improve anyone’s mood, talk radio cutting abruptly into static with thrilling interludes of polka music._ _ _ _ _ _

______The funeral itself is one, long blur; black-clad bodies, faces both familiar and not, halting speeches. Steve’s speech is stiff, devoid of his usual charisma, and it hits Bucky with a fresh wave of regret, for how things had fallen out between the three of them._ _ _ _ _ _

______Holding his own wrist, flesh fingers firm around cool vibranium, he remembers the first being hacked from his body by Steve’s own shield, Tony’s features distorted in rage and a terrible sadness._ _ _ _ _ _

______Howard’s choked off cries and bruises blooming under Bucky’s fists, the dawning horror on Maria’s face when he’d pulled the car door open, reaching for her. He can go all the way back to the first time he’d seen Howard, boyish and sheepish over his disaster of a flying car, before Bucky had gone home that night and cried into his pillow because he was afraid and had fought with Steve._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tony hadn’t been a friend, per se, and he’d been a real mixed bag of a hero, but fuck, he’d been Howard’s boy and Steve’s friend and a father himself, and the grief in Bucky’s chest is a complicated, mixed up thing he doesn’t have the right words for._ _ _ _ _ _

______After, Wanda grips his wrist hard, long nails biting deep as she’d leaned in close, hair falling over her face and words tumbling in a rush. “I’ve been thinking, looking at the possibilities, and I think I can go back, bring it all back, them, _him_ — I just have to...” _ _ _ _ _ _

______“What...” Bucky clears his throat, tries again. “Wanda, start over.” She glances up at him, hair sliding away, and _fuck_ her nails are sharp, gaze wild and gleaming with hints of red. Worry thrills through Bucky before her expression snaps back into focus, familiar dark eyes returning._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh! Hmm, Bucky, I’m sorry, I was just...distracted.” Her fingers loosen, a quick pat to his wrist. “I want to talk with Clint, maybe I’ll see you later?” She doesn’t wait for a response, turning from him. Bucky watches the half moons in his skin fill in, wipes the blood on his jeans._ _ _ _ _ _

______He considers following her, but she’s down by the lake talking to Clint with his absurd mohawk. So he leans against a tree, hands stuffed in pockets, nods awkwardly at various and sundry funeral attendees fucking off in spaceships or portals or even literally _flying away._ There’s a brief moment of pure joy when he sees Shuri, _alive_ and flipping him off with a grin before hopping into a glowing portal. He hadn’t known she’d been okay, hadn’t seen her since Wakanda and the relief that floods him is intense. _ _ _ _ _ _

______Sam is suddenly at his side, casual in a leather jacket. “Hey man, he’s almost ready, you gonna see him off or does this tree need you to prop it up?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______He wants to glare at Sam, make some snarky comment, but he _does_ want to see Steve. He’s feeling tired and overwhelmed by the intense emotions of the past days after so long _(five years)_ of soothing monotony. He’s _not_ an Avenger, not a part of the team, and while he doesn’t want that, he still feels distinctly out of place as Steve and Sam fall back into their familiar partnership, going off to plan returning the stones with the Professor. _ _ _ _ _ _

______“Yeah, okay.” He mutters, scuffing his boot into the dirt, sending a large beetle scuttling. Sam takes pity on him, takes his arm almost gently to guide him deeper into the woods._ _ _ _ _ _

______The last few moments are bright, hazy, almost surreal. Their embrace, quick and rough. Mindless, familiar jibes, and then Steve is on the platform, looking almost unreal in his suit, jaw almost too strong, hair too perfect in silhouette against the clear sky._ _ _ _ _ _

______The sight grips Bucky, holding him captive in that terrible, beautiful moment of suspension, where possibilities converge. He has been here countless times before, hanging from a train hurtling straight into hell and diving into dark water amid helicarrier debris, tense on his toes ready to run when Steve had found him in Bucharest and _oh_ so long before all that when he’d leaned in to kiss Steve for the first time in 1934, breath held between their hesitant lips, and he’s afraid to blink, stretching his eyes wide, afraid to miss this last look, for this moment to end, afraid to let go and then he does. _ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve flickers out of sight, gone between one breath and the next, and Bucky’s heart is beating again, a funny, uneven rhythm._ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky settles in to wait. He’s pretty sure it’s going to be longer than five seconds._ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -Canon character death of the Starks is mentioned/discussed in the context of Tony's funeral.  
> -Bucky has a negative response/flashback to being Snapped while making out with Endgame Steve. He tries to continue despite his discomfort, but they slow down/briefly discuss it before resuming at a lighter level.  
> -Brief descriptions of post battle distress, behaviors and flashbacks throughout.


	5. interlude 1 -  a feelin’ of un-nameable dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve returns the Infinity stones (mostly) and then goes on his own, personal mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the interludes - several shorter chapters interspersed between the main plot that follow Endgame Steve's part of the story after he disappears to return the Infinity stones. 
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> mention of suicide, mention of canon character death, mention of temporary character death
> 
>   
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Earth 1949 - New York, the suburbs_

Steve knew he’d fucked up, almost immediately. 

Well, if he was being honest with himself, he’d known he was fucking up even before that.

He’d been fucked up as he’d stood at Tony’s funeral, feeling the sweat slide down the back of his neck, mentally planning his upcoming trip into the past. _Jump here, then stop here, do this…_

He’d been fucking up early on, when he’d touched Bucky in the shower, kissed him goodbye, let every bit of the love and longing and regret and hope he felt infuse each gesture, seen the hope in Bucky’s eyes and said nothing. 

And, when he’d said goodbye to Sam, careful to keep his plans out of his eyes. Sam is too much like him; he’d go in a heartbeat. And Steve can’t help but feel like Sam is still needed, like he’s the Cap the world needs instead of Steve, a world-weary man who can’t seem to stop moving.

Bucky'd suspected. Steve had known. He’d felt it, in the way Bucky had gripped his neck, hard for just a second before letting him go, a breath away from a shake. 

But their original mission had been completely fucked as well. The chances of that had been high, of course. Despite all the considerable power of the Avengers, all working together to come up with a...surprisingly precise way of moving through time, it’d still been a crapshoot at the end of the day. Time shifts, it moves, and they move with it. 

In the end...well, he’d known the chances were high. He’d done most of what he’d needed to first. 

Back to 2012 first, and that had been a fresh wound, to see Tony in duplicate, to see himself, to know where it all had gone from there. But he’d been successful, carefully leaving each stone where it belonged. 

Asgard had been...amazing, and it had taken all of Steve’s willpower not to linger, to roam the shining halls, to race over the rainbow bridge he’d glimpsed from a window. 

Morag too, despite being a dead rock of a planet...Steve had marveled at the view, the strange creatures tripping on his boots, the different color of the sky, and the multiple moons. That stone too had been easy to return.

Steeling himself...Steve had set the dial. For 1949.

He’d picked that date carefully. Far enough from the war. Bucky...Bucky might still be frozen, might still be with the Soviets. And Steve, he’d definitely be frozen. Peggy, situated where he needs her geographically. Howard too. Steve has maps in his head, patterns of movement, thinks he can predict pretty well where everyone will be, everyone he needs for mission success.

Mentally reviewing his checklist, he’d let himself start to think it might...all go smoothly. Go back. Get himself (Steve). Get Bucky. Go back to his _own_ Bucky. He’s sure...he’ll be doing all kinds of egregious things to the timeline, sure he’ll create an infinite number of himself, of Bucky, but...well.

After seeing himself in New York, in 2012, seeing how his own face had gone soft with shock at Bucky’s name.

Remembering how lonely he’d been. 

It had started working on his brain, wouldn't let him rest. All he could think about were the decades they’d both spent, Steve cold beneath the ice, Bucky tortured and used, and Steve could think of nothing else. And Peggy...how he’d left her. His insight is better now, he can see...why he did the things he did, but in retrospect, forcing her to be privy and part of his suicide attempt had been...cruel, though at the time he’d thought nothing of it.

Steve sighs, slides his fingers over the dial once more, and then hits the button. Next stop, the forties. 

Of course, nothing goes as planned. Things have shifted, no one is where they should be. 

Peggy is in the suburbs, married. Howard, on the other side of the country doing God knows what. 

It had all taken so much longer than he had planned. 

He’d gone to see Peggy first, and that...that had hurt. Despite the stories, there’d never been much romance between them — the whisper of maybe, her fingers lingering on his sleeve, the quiet flick of Bucky’s eyelids, at his other side. He’d apologized...not for his actions — he doesn’t, can’t really regret those, not when they brought him to the modern day, brought his Bucky back to him, his friends; Natasha and Sam and Wanda and...

But she’d believed him. Her face had been white with shock at first, lips so red against pale skin. But she’d believed him in the end, he’d...clearly been himself, if older, tireder. 

She’d touched his face, trembling, and then, when he’d told her his plan, her jaw had set, decisive, and the next minutes she’d had Howard on the phone, and then they’d traveled, by car, and that had been a trip, to see Peggy driving a sleek convertible as red as her lipstick instead of a Jeep.

It hadn’t exactly been incognito, but as she’d told Steve, her efforts to begin SHIELD had been overlooked, and she’s persona non grata. No one wants to listen. They all want to believe the war is over; to celebrate, dance, move on. No one is watching her. 

When they’d met up with Howard, he too, had gone pale with shock, and then he’d smoked three cigarettes in rapid order, followed by a shot of whisky. Steve had watched him, thinking of hours Howard and Bucky had spent, out back, surreptitiously smoking, talking about fanciful inventions and women (and men), and, and he thinks of grainy film footage, of Howard pleading with Bucky, and he sets his face carefully, to reveal none of it. 

After all, if all goes well...that won’t happen, for this Howard, this Bucky. 

Howard, after being well-fortified, is on board too, and suddenly, things seem to be on track. Howard has the resources — he’d already been looking — and it’d just taken a nudge to set them in the right direction. 

Bundled in huge coats, aboard a narrow ship stocked with all manner of strange equipment, they’d laughed, laughed and talked as ice slid by, bobbing on a choppy, gray sea, wind bitterly cold and turning their faces red and raw. It’d been...nice. Steve had kept a lot to himself out of necessity, and Howard had poked a little, and Peggy’s lips had gone tight, more than once.

It’d been a goodbye of sorts, with his friends, one he’d never gotten. 

And they'd found his earlier self, easily. Steve’s heart had ached, to see how young he was, not even 27. He knows that this Steve and this Bucky won’t get to live openly together for years yet but...they'll get there. It’s a possibility and he’s going to do what he can to protect that, make it happen. 

Defrosted Steve is predictably difficult. Steve had expected no less. 

He doesn’t remember much of his own defrosting, and then he’d woken on guard, ready to fight in the apartment SHIELD had cobbled together. But, he remembers himself afterwards, bewildered. Sick with grief. Disoriented. 

It goes better, this Steve surrounded by friends instead of a sterile apartment, but still, it takes time. 

Crying and angry by turns, disoriented, ready to fight Steve, fight Howard, fight everyone. But when Steve, _Young Steve,_ as he can’t help calling his younger analog, hears the plan, the mission, that Bucky, _Bucky is alive,_ he’s ready to go, immediately.

That part. 

That part doesn’t go well at all. Steve had tried to time it for the transition from the Soviets to Hydra. He’d thought, based on his recall, his research, that Bucky had probably had the serum before Azzano. He’d seen the signs, after the fact. 

The too-thin face. Bucky’d been hungry, hungry all the time. Hell, they’d all been hungry, but Bucky had always been a moderate eater, before. Despite the warzone, the newness of Steve’s body, the recent trauma, he’d been sexually insatiable, constantly hungry for Steve, and that too, had tracked, even as it had been ill-advised, getting busy behind enemy lines. They’d nearly been caught a half dozen times. 

No serious injuries, bruises clearing quickly, how he’d just kept going.

It all makes sense, after the fact, but Steve hadn’t even considered it then. He’s pretty sure the arm, all of that came after with Zola, with the new beginnings of Hydra. He’d been wrong through. 

They’d tried to catch the Soviets mid-transfer only to find...nothing. No one along the route. Their base, the one Steve’d been certain that Bucky had been held in, had been empty, long-abandoned. Steve had drifted through it. Wondered...which cell had been Bucky’s? Had they put him on ice that early? Had he gotten medical treatment for his arm, or had this been the start?

Bucky’s records for that time had been appallingly vague, and Bucky had always refused to answer those sorts of questions. Bucky would turn his face away — the most obvious and common deflection. Or he’d busy himself with something; feigning sudden deafness, or distracting Steve in some way — with food, with affection, with...

It makes Steve sad now, to think of it. He wonders, should he have pushed? Should he have done more? But he’d just let Bucky be, had let him have his secrets, his silences. Bucky’d had so little else.

Steve, Peggy, and Howard had been momentarily stymied. They’d had to go back to Steve’s maps, his knowledge of the future, triangulating it with current intel, everything Howard and Peggy could lay their hands on. After long hours poring over charts, endless cups of tea and strong, gut-rotting coffee, they had a new plan. A chain of places of Hydra had been, might be, all potential locations to explore and rule out. 

They’d had many more dead ends — empty warehouses and mundane office buildings, more than Steve can count. Until, finally, instead of yet another abandoned shell, they’d found — Hydra, already in its full, poisonous state. There’d been no evidence of a broken organization, struggling to rebuild, and Steve’s gut had turned over in dread as the full scope of their operation had become clear. 

So many men, so many weapons. Howard, at least, had been safely above, and Peggy was as good in a pinch as she’s ever been, firing with calm efficiency, using her pistol as a club when it had run empty, swiping new weapons off the dead with easy grace. And his counterpart...well, it had made Steve wince to watch him. He’d gotten much better training after he’d woken up in the 21st century, though he’d mostly given up on guns — bad publicity. 

But Young Steve, he uses a gun as easily as the shield, for all that his hand-to-hand is clumsy and obvious. And Steve longs to train him, get him some time with Bucky...He forces himself to focus, but it’s hard, so hard. Despite the desperate circumstances they’re in, the sheer amount of enemies they’re facing, the memories press in close around him, and it’s hard, harder and harder for him to separate himself from Young Steve, from this time, from seeing all the pathways, all of his choices, how they’d led to...

“Bucky!!!”

A heartsick cry, ripped out of Young Steve. 

The hallway is clear, but for...

The Winter Soldier. 

Steve’s heart aches. Bucky, like the Steve next to him, looks so fucking _young _. His eyes are still shadowed, hollowed, and he must have been in cryo for some of the time because he can’t be a year or two beyond when he fell.__

Hair a little overgrown, not enough to hide the cold, blank face. No mask yet, no intimidating body armor. Simple pants cut for ease of movement, tucked into high, laced boots. They’d clearly interrupted...some procedure though, and it’s this that has Young Steve crying, has Steve himself wanting to reach out. Bucky’s bare chested, electrodes hanging from his temple and chest. His chest had been shaved, and that is newly-strange to Steve. And the arm...oh God. 

He hadn’t realized... 

It hadn’t gone up, all the way, at first. 

It stops just under Bucky’s deltoid, the metal arm looking enormous, clumsy against Bucky’s slender frame. They hadn’t been feeding him enough, Steve can tell — ribs standing out against skin, the hint of pelvic bones protruding from the top of his pants. Bucky lurches, off balance from the weight of the arm. 

Steve hadn’t realized just how much bigger Bucky had gotten over the years to support the weight of the metal. The attachment site is angry, red, spreading up his shoulder, down his sides, and he’s covered all over in bruises. Definitely not feeding him enough. 

Steve’s starting to sweat, wondering how they’re going to subdue Bucky, subdue him without hurting him, get him out of here. Will they be able to de-program him?

When he hears another choked cry besides him, the clang of a shield hitting the ground and then...

Young Steve is rushing past him, flinging himself at the Winter Soldier.

And the Winter Soldier...

Catches him. Catches him, and holds him close, flesh arm coming up automatically to rub at Steve’s back.

It's a familiar gesture, so familiar it makes Steve’s chest feel too tight. 

A faint mien of...confusion, a thin, bruised hand rubbing gentle circles on Young Steve’s back while his shoulders shake with sobs. 

A noise further down the corridor, a rush of guards, and the Winter Soldier is whirling, gun in hand, fast, so fucking fast, and he’s pushing Steve behind himself, firing, quicker than the eye can see. Bodies falling. 

And when he turns back, turns back to all of them...

Bucky Barnes. Bucky Barnes, behind those eyes — alert, aware. And he’s calmly re-holstering his gun, giving Young Steve a little shake at the back of his neck that gets him to stop crying, stand up straight. 

They move as a unit, then, but there are still so many guards, too many, and Steve sends them ahead — Peggy and Bucky and Young Steve — because he has an exit strategy. He’d left most of the particles with Peggy, with careful instructions, but he has some, enough, left over. 

He never gets the chance, though. He sees the three of them disappear through a door, turns to face the rest and...the blue glow of the Tesseract. 

Fills his vision, and it’s so much, too much. He can feel the serum trying to heal him, to keep him going, and he’s down, down on the ground, and he’s reaching, desperate to get to the controls on his wrist to send him — but the pain — 

It’s searing through him, overwhelming and he can’t move his body properly, can’t control his limbs anymore. He feels his lips move, cracked, going black and bleeding, his vision fading, and he can’t speak, just a croaked groan coming from a throat that is swelling, closing with damage

_I’m sorry._

He’s still fighting, trying to touch the panel, to get up, to get his hands on the shield. He can hear voices, yelling, and the unmistakable whine of weapons charging again, and he braces himself for it...maybe if he can...

Blue light, consuming him, unimaginable pain, and he’s trying to scream, but...that’s past him, now. And...at the end, as he feels the pain finally slip from his body, knows...

_He’s dying._

A warm, orange light, wrapping around him, glowing against his eyelids, and _oh,_ he still hurts, but if he’s going, this isn’t a bad way to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -Steve crashing the Valkyrie is referred to as a suicide attempt  
> -References to canon character deaths of the Starks  
> -Steve believes he is dying at the end of the chapter
> 
> **Suicide Prevention & Mental Health Resources**  
> The [National Suicide Prevention Lifeline](https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/) is (800)-273-8255 and is available 24/7.  
> The [Crisis Text Line](https://www.crisistextline.org/) is also available 24/7 for texting: (US/Canada 741741, UK 85258, Ireland 50808), covers other mental health crises as well.


	6. chapter 5 - when worlds collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Bruce have an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final pieces of art from the banner from [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041744) appears in this chapter <3
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> temporary character death, medical procedures/distress during medical procedures 
> 
>   
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_2027 Earth - the Cabin_

_He’s tucked into the curve of another man’s body; heavy arm over his waist, warm breath on the back of his neck. He’s so comfortable, floating in that soft, hazy spot between sleeping and waking._

_A scuff of feet, a scrap at the door. A crash, searing pain in his left arm before it goes numb, useless and hanging at his side and..._

Bucky’s on his feet before he’s fully awake, hands patting frantically at his sides, down his thighs, searching for a weapon that isn’t there. A brief survey of the room reveals that he is in fact, alone. No intruders have crashed into his bedroom in the dead of night, intent on mischief (he still remembers the time some of the kids had tried to prank him in his sleep and the absolute _mess_ that had resulted), nor any renegade assassins (the whole Thanos thing had pretty much ensured an end to Hydra and any other evil organizations attempting to reclaim him for their own nefarious purposes).

He takes one breath, then a second, trying to orient himself to _this_ situation, the here and now and not the past, where he fought at the drop of a hat and never went unarmed. The noise that woke him is ongoing, a horrible, clanging racket from outside the Cabin. It’s one of the more esoteric ones, a combination of science and magic tailored to respond to less...mundane (and likely unpleasant) security breaches.

Bucky is _over_ the less mundane, and is absolutely _not_ equipped to deal with it as he is — in his underwear and feeling up his own legs. Sighing, he goes to find some goddamn pants, and maybe a knife. 

And hopefully, Bruce will get his own ass out of bed, and they’ll be able to figure out what is setting off the alarms before it comes inside and kills them both. Bucky takes one extra second to hope for Bruce to also be in some fucking pants, because emergency or not, he’s seen green dick before and he has no desire to see it again. 

He meets Bruce coming out of his own bedroom, pants on, _thank you,_ and they move through the dark cabin together, Bruce pulling doors open with care and Bucky a silent shadow behind. 

Outside, the porch wood is warm under his feet, air humid, and the alarm is even more jarring in the quiet night. He and Bruce don’t need to exchange words as they go down the steps towards the forest, skipping the squeaky ones, their most low-level alarm. 

The forest seems unchanged, and they move through it easily, quietly, feet sliding over branches and small stones. Familiar landscape aside, Bucky feels...strange, the air heavy and clinging to his skin. There are all sorts of things in these woods — Tony’s abandoned and mostly untouched experiments, small guest houses and training equipment, Bruce’s current projects — all potential sources of chaos. However, as they follow the alarm, Bucky is certain they’re on a direct collision course to the Pym Platform, _of fucking course._

His suspicions are supported when they reach their destination. The platform, and the space around it, is _glowing,_ a shimmering, golden light that he _knows_ is impossible, because he’s crawled over every inch of the damn thing, making adjustments per Bruce’s exacting specifications and _fuck,_ it’s getting brighter, trees stark against it. Bucky looks away, attempting to shield his eyes and instead getting a good look at Bruce for the first time. 

“Bruce!” Bucky hisses. “Is that my gun?”

“You never use it anymore.” Bruce’s face gets a defensive look that Bucky has become all too familiar with over the years. “I’m just borrowing it!”

“You’re gonna need to borrow a new nut, sticking it back there like that. Give it here.”

_“No, I might need it.”_

Bucky grits his teeth. “Bruce, come on.” Bruce shakes his head, a quick, sharp movement. Bucky elects to ignore him rather than engage further and maybe get his own nut shot off. In any case, Bruce is his morning yoga partner, and he knows damn well that the Professor can barely get one arm behind his back, let alone do it fast enough to draw the gun shoved in the back of his sweatpants. 

He’s distracted from the absurdity that it is his roommate when the very air _shrieks,_ a rending sound that Bucky winces at as the light coalesces, abruptly, bright as the sun, and then blinks out completely, leaving them in darkness. Bucky squints, night blind, can barely make out a huddled form in front of them, and his grip tightens compulsively around the knife as he moves forward, watchful. Bruce hits the floodlights, lighting up the platform, and Bucky stops dead, scarcely able to believe what he’s seeing. 

Scene Art by [LiquidLightz ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884539/chapters/68338804)(click link for AO3 art post)  


He’s bounced back in time now more often than he can count and has seen as many versions of Steve Rogers as that. He’s known them all immediately — the set of their bones and the feel of their soul, pulling him like a hook in his own heart, even as the superficial flesh changes. But, none of them have ever come _here,_ landing in Bucky’s very own backyard, and he can’t repress a shiver, gaze drifting skyward for angular, alien ships. 

The night sky is clear though, stars bright, and Bucky’s attention snaps back to the platform; takes in armor in muted shades of red and blue, scaly chainmail. The shield too, is different, a heavy looking, hammered disc, familiar star faded and tarnished. Bucky has the brief, wild impression of a Captain America-themed gladiator, wants to laugh but it freezes on his lips when the man — _Steve_ — climbs to his feet, pain written in every line of his body. Long, tangled hair and a rough hewn face, scars cutting across cheek and nose. Bucky takes it all in, stutters over the eyes, so fucking _familiar_ , but it’s the dark stain, soaking through thick leather armor, that sends Bucky rushing up onto the platform, knife falling from nerveless fingers even as he reaches, frantic, towards this Steve who is so clearly injured. 

And Steve... _Steve_...he takes in Bucky, eyes wide, flicking from head to toe, and his mouth is hanging open, and Bucky has a brief impression of tanned skin turning milk white before Steve’s eyes roll up in his head, and he collapses.

Bucky catches him, barely, and for all of the man’s height and bulk and Bucky’s enhanced strength beside, it’s strangely easy to lower him to the platform. He doesn’t linger on it though. He’s on automatic now, yelling for Bruce even as he presses shaking fingers to Steve’s pulse — _fast, too fast_ — and why the fuck hadn’t he put on a shirt? He’s got nothing to stanch the bleeding. But then Bruce is there, wrapping a shirt around Steve’s midsection. And Bucky keeps running on autopilot, carrying Steve back to the cabin, Bruce right behind him. 

There’s a bedroom-turned-infirmary, and that’s where they set up, Bucky hefting Steve onto the bed like a sack of potatoes and arranging limp limbs. Bruce attends to the medical side of things, working in a calm, measured fashion, murmuring instructions to Bucky that he does his best to follow. What follows next is a blur of shredded armor, dried blood and fresh red, and finally, clean white bandages on bruised skin. 

Tony had made a pretense of living a simple life, but in reality he’d never stopped preparing for disaster — the cabin had been fully equipped to care for his family in most circumstances or any rogue Avenger ending up on his doorstep. Until now, they haven’t had to use it much — mostly the occasional training injury when the kids come up, or the obligatory medical training that is now a part of any Avenger’s training. 

Finally, Bruce steps back and sighs heavily. He goes to run a hand through his hair, stops at Bucky’s head shake. Instead he strips off his bloody gloves, tosses them with a soft and sincere, “What the _fuck?_ ”

Bucky laughs, and it’s sharp in the quiet room. “No shit, what in the actual _fuck?_ ” He takes his own turn at handwashing, the routine soothing and the red-tinged foam oddly hypnotic as it circles the drain. 

Hands dry, he turns to lean against the counter by Bruce. The professor had shifted back into his human form at some point, and his sweatpants hang on his hips, filthy with blood and dirt after the hurried first aid in the woods. Bruce’s face is bleary with fatigue, purple smudges dark under his eyes, and Bucky makes a mental note to make sure they have enough of the soothing tea that Bruce likes to drink when he can’t sleep. Middle of the night wake-up calls aside, Bruce talks a big game about work-life balance and _wellness_ but he still sleeps like shit, plagued by nightmares and pain in his arm, and Bucky doesn’t really want to know what else — he has his own issues, _thank you._

Bucky jerks his head towards the man in the hospital bed “Is he asleep?”

Bruce shakes his head. “No...um..he’s unconscious still. Breathing fine, heart rate still a little high, but hard to tell what’s normal with any of...” and he gestures between the three of them, all presumably inflicted with some combination of serum and gamma radiation.

“Should we call someone?” Bucky asks, though he’s not too sure who they _should_ call. Someone with more medical experience than Bruce, sure. Maybe someone more in touch with what the fuck might be happening in the universe at large to result in a prehistoric Captain America turning up in their time machine. 

Bruce makes a face. “I should call Strange.” Bucky also makes a face (though truthfully he normally enjoys any chance to mess with Strange). 

Bruce rubs at his arm, kneading at the gauntlet scars. “It could be a weird time thing. Or a weird space thing. Well, it’s definitely a weird time-space thing, which is _his_ thing. And, he’s a doctor, he can use that M.D. for once.” He pushes off the counter, starts fumbling through cabinets, producing vials. “I’m, uh, gonna take some samples. Either he sustained catastrophic injuries, or his healing factor is not commensurate with other versions...” He trails off, mumbling to himself, and Bucky decides it’s a good time to escape and make a fucking plan of some kind.

He points at Bruce on his way out. “Breakfast after! And a shower!” 

Bruce dismisses him with a flap of the hand, gaze already focused on the unconscious man in the hospital bed. 

Bucky takes his time in the shower. His hands move by rote, scrubbing his body, his hair. The water is hot, and it feels good against his body as he inhales the scent of ginger deep into his lungs. He feels...deeply unsettled, cold in a way that the steamy water can’t touch, as good as it feels. Shutting the water off, he works conditioner into his hair, using his fingers to detangle while his brain runs, memories crowding at the edges.

Last time he’d seen Steve on the platform...well. 

He pushes down that thought. Instead he focuses on the minutiae of grooming — brushing teeth, wiping steam off the mirror to check for new gray hairs in his beard under the pretext of trimming it. He’s not real sure how old he is, biologically — Steve had been nearly 40, and Bucky had been a year older than him — _seventeen, freight train, longing, daybreak_...

But, then Steve had slept undisturbed for seventy years, while Bucky had been in and out of cryo — though some missions had seemed barely worth the defrost time. Others, he’d been out for six months, a year. He remembers most of the time he spent out, can’t seem to forget it, and finally it seems his body is starting to remember that time too, with threads of gray in his beard and hair, creases in his face that no longer smooth out entirely. And he’s vain, always has been a little bit, and so he tries to take care of himself, despite there being no one out here to impress beyond Bruce and some chickens. So he puts stuff on his face and body to keep his skin nice and stuff in his hair to keep it soft and shiny, and fuck, time to rinse and he’s back under the water. He focuses hard on the feel of the water through his hair, and later, the towel rough against his skin, the floor cold against his bare feet.

By the time he’s dressed and braiding his damp hair, the sun is coming up, and Bucky’s equilibrium has largely returned. He makes breakfast automatically, cracking eggs, brewing coffee, all the while making a mental list of things to be done. He’s just pulling bread out of the toaster, ready to search for Bruce, when the man in question appears, green again, freshly showered with his hair curling damply around his ears. 

“Mmmm, coffee!” Bruce grabs at the mug Bucky had planned to take him, drinks with enthusiasm and a distinct lack of regard for temperature. He’s reaching for the coffeepot for a refill when he notices Bucky staring at him, pan full of eggs in hand. 

“Bucky? Are you...okay?” It’s an unusual inquiry — they have enough assorted damage between the two of them that simple questions like _what’s wrong? Are you okay?_ Or even worse, _do you want to talk about it?_ are fraught and potentially dangerous. Bucky realizes his face must be doing something strange, attempts to rearrange it into something more neutral. 

“Is...” He fumbles a minute for a name, gives up “Our...guest? Should he be alone? I was...” And he gestures helplessly at the plates, trying to convey that he’d been planning to bring Bruce food, rather than leave _Steve alone._

Bruce gives him a look more gentle than Bucky deserves. “Nothing we can do for him right now, Bucky. He’s still unconscious, or something very much like it, while his body tries to repair the damage. All we can do is support him while that happens, and gather information meanwhile.”

“But he’s...stable.” It seems terribly important, suddenly, and Bucky has to resist the urge to run back to infirmary to check — not that he’d be able to do anything if he wasn’t. 

Bruce pulls out his phone. “I have him hooked up to the monitors. I’ll know if anything changes. And.” He rolls his eyes. “Tony could be such a creep, but it’s not totally useless.” He shows his phone screen to Bucky — it’s a video feed of Steve, still lying quietly in the bed, sheets pulled up on his chest. 

Bucky nods, finds he doesn’t have anything else to say. “Um, good, okay. Breakfast?” 

The eggs are rubbery, and the toast is burned, but it’s not terribly unusual for one of Bucky’s breakfasts. Cooking is one of the things they trade off. Bruce makes elaborate recipes once or twice a week; complicated, delicious meals with multiple components, paired beverages, plentiful leftovers. The kitchen is usually a disaster after, and Bucky always grumbles about clean-up, usually while continuing to stuff his face. Bucky, for his part, mostly assembles and heats various odds and ends. He does leave the kitchen spotless, and despite his dubious offerings, Bruce always eats everything without complaint, including this morning. 

After they finish their respective plates, Bruce goes for more coffee, and Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Hitting the caffeine hard today, huh?” 

Bruce shrugs. “Strange is going to come up, take a look at him later this morning.” Bucky can relate, though he’s not sure extreme caffeination is the right way to deal with it. 

When Bruce retreats back to the infirmary, Bucky goes to take care of the chickens, who are supremely unimpressed with the events of the last 12 hours when he fills them in. After, he gets on with the rest of his chores. 

He’d ostensibly been hired as security and he does do that, though it’s largely prevention — checking the motion detectors and cameras and more mystical defenses for malfunction, patrolling the land, keeping everything in good working order. It’s a good system, in theory, and Bucky does his part to maintain it. Practically, though — all the alarms in the world aside — if there’s a serious breach, and he can’t shoot it or punch it, and Bruce can’t tear it apart, they’re probably fucked anyways.

Still, Bucky always has a niggling feeling at the back of his brain that they should be training, at least a bit. Bruce never really learned to fight in his integrated form, and from the little Bucky has seen, he’s carried over the worst of both forms — too much introspection and fear from Bruce, and all of the overconfidence of the Hulk, with less speed and strength to boot. 

But Bruce isn’t interested, and Bucky has little heart for it either. 

Sniping, that’s in his blood — he dreams in angles and wind velocity — knows he can hit whatever he aims at half-drunk in a snow-storm; he doesn’t need to practice. But he can’t shake the urge, so, even though he no longer actively carries, he stashes weapons everywhere, goes through a half-assed training routine once or twice a week, and calls it good. 

So, while technically Bucky’s paychecks are for security, in reality he’s become more of an all-purpose companion to Bruce, doing whatever needs done. Despite being mostly healed from the gauntlet, Bruce leaves infrequently, burying himself in experiments. Bucky had heard that Bruce had been upbeat during the years of the Snap — cheerful, socially engaged, especially after he first managed to merge his personalities. 

Bucky’s never met that man. From what he can figure, Bruce had reverted back to his baseline: unfailingly kind, with a dry sense of humor, but anxious, withdrawn, reluctant to leave. 

So, Bucky does the supply runs, bullies Bruce into morning yoga, takes care of the grounds, helps with Bruce’s experiments when he’s needed. He’d learned from Shuri, before, to take quick and precise measurements. She’d assigned him a tutor to help him dredge up the math long lost in his brain, and he’d learned new calculations besides, plus he can follow directions, so he’s not total deadweight.

It’s an isolated existence, but it keeps him busy, busier than he’d thought when he first decided to stay. And, they have visitors. Bucky snorts, thinking of the man in the infirmary and Strange’s impending arrival as he moves through the woods, checking to ensure that all is in order.

The kids, _Young Avengers,_ Bucky corrects himself, do come up from time to time. They’ll run experiments with Bruce, fuck around with ‘training’ exercises (okay, they play paintball) with Bucky, and eat everything that isn’t bolted down, before they scatter again. 

Bucky arrives at the Pym Platform faster than he’d thought. He’d planned it for the last stop, and in the daylight, the clearing looks and feels reassuringly mundane. Except for...he frowns as he palms the knife he’d left behind. There is blood, dried brown splotches across the platform surface, and he scrubs at them, absentmindedly with the edge of his t-shirt, before he catches himself. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket — _probably Bruce_ — and as he pushes to his feet to head back to the cabin, he makes a mental note to come back with proper cleaning supplies. 

By the time Bucky makes it back, Strange has already arrived, and he can follow the sound of his and Bruce’s voices right to the infirmary.

“I am a _Master_ of the mystical arts and you called me here to...what? Confirm this man is, in fact unconscious?” 

“Aw, come on, Stephen, just check him out. I can’t tell if he needs stitches, or what — I’m not that kind of doctor.”

Strange huffs “I was a celebrated _neurosurgeon_...”

In the infirmary, Strange is examining Steve with gentle, glowing hands, despite his words to the contrary. He’s casually dressed, in a baggy cardigan and worn jeans, and the ever-present red cloak is hovering. 

At the sight of Bucky, Strange and Bruce carry on, but the cloak floats over to him and flaps, awkward in its affections. Bucky can’t hold back a grin at the sight of the silly red floating thing. 

“Hey, you old rag,” he says, and he strokes it. The cape is fond of him, for whatever reason, and he likes it too. 

Strange snort. “That is The Cloak of Levitation, a powerful, mystical object, _not_ a rag, or a dog, despite its poor behavior.” 

Bucky shrugs, continues stroking the cloak, keeping an eye on the proceedings. 

Strange continues to bitch, but ends up stitching several smaller wounds before attending to the large one in Steve’s side. Bucky winces as Strange makes his preparations, and Bruce hovers. Steve had been limp throughout, but as Strange starts on the deep wound, Steve’s eyes flutter, neck muscles going tense, and Bucky jumps forward, but he’s not quick enough.

With surprising quickness, Steve closes his fist around Strange’s arm. “Shhhe...Shhhee...” His voice is a harsh, whispered croak, and his eyes are wide and wild as he sees Strange, hands deep in his side. He begins to struggle in earnest as when he sees Bruce at his other side. “N-n...Nnoo..” And Bucky gets there with the cloak, manages to get his hands on Steve’s legs, holding him still, and their eyes meet — Steve’s so dilated Bucky can barely see blue, and tears are beginning to pour down his cheeks. And then, suddenly, Steve goes limp with a sigh, eyes drifting closed. 

Bucky waits a second, then another, makes sure Steve’s actually out before he dares to let go. Bruce is discarding a syringe, the quick-acting tranquilizer he’d injected, and Strange goes back to the wound as though he were frequently assaulted by his patients mid-surgery and it was nothing even worth commenting on. 

The green light glows around his hands as he makes quick, precise stitches, and Bucky sighs in relief as he bandages everything up again. Bucky listens to the catalog of injuries before Strange leaves in a flurry of instructions and red velvet — broken ribs and fingers, cracked pelvis, countless cuts, bruises, bites, stab wounds. Unexpectedly, and thankfully, his internal injuries are minimal, something Strange and Bruce both chalk up to the (suspected) serum. 

That night, Bucky has a hard time falling asleep. He’d made it through most of the day on autopilot, scrubbing the platform clean, making dinner, occasionally sticking his head to check on Steve, lying quiet and pale under Bruce’s supervision.

Now, in his bed, he’s restless, turning one way, then the other, mind returning again and again to the man down the hall, to his startling presence on the platform, red stained suds as he’d scrubbed it earlier and….the last time. The last time he’d seen his own Steve on the platform. 

_Earth 2023 - Georgia_

_Bucky hadn’t worried at first, when the other Steve —“call me Grant”— with his tired eyes and unflattering slacks had come back, popping in down by the lake. He’d been irritated, sure. He’d hoped that Steve would come right back, five seconds, but it had been just that — a hope, and not a likely one, given Steve’s tendency to disregard mission orders at the drop of a hat if properly motivated._

_Bucky still hadn’t worried when Grant had given the shield to Sam. Well, not **the** shield — Steve’s shield. As far as Bucky knew, that shield was still lying in pieces, carefully wrapped in a purloined motel sheet in the back of Steve’s truck. This shield had been different, reds a little more saturated, the blue trending to navy. And the balance — subtly different, even to Bucky who hadn’t touched the original in years. _

_Fuck, he’d been naive enough to take it as a good sign, that Steve was maybe thinking about retirement, arranging for Sam to take up the mantle through some convoluted time shenanigas rather than just having a fucking new shield made._

_He hadn’t worried until Grant had pulled him aside, after the hand-off, leading him to the narrow bedroom that he and Steve had been assigned when they’d arrived. Just that morning, Steve had dumped their bags in the closet, while Bucky had fussed with his hair, and they’d planned to shove the twin beds together that night._

_Instead, he’d been sitting across from this doppelganger, Grant, their knees bumping together, and it’d been strange, to see this older version, hair gone silver and face creased. His nose and cheekbones are all the more prominent without the softer flesh of youth._

_Despite Steve’s soft, comfortable clothes — an oversized, bland sweater and aforementioned slacks — he’d moved with powerful grace, sitting on the low bed with ease. Grant had put his hand on Bucky’s knee, squeezed in a familiar way, and then he’d groped for Bucky’s hands, holding them both. He’d betrayed no surprise over the metal hand, and his grip had been firm._

_Bucky had imagined, for a minute, what it would be like for his Steve to be that old, for them to be old together, matching age spots and fuck, wedding rings. Because there is a wedding ring on Grant’s finger, and it’s well used and as aged as the rest of him, gold gleaming soft. Bucky had wanted to touch it, wrest his hand free and feel the faded, worn gold, and ask._

_But instead, he’d looked up, seen the tears in Steve’s eyes, the tightness of his mouth, and he’d suddenly known, hadn’t wanted to know, and he’d tried to get away, had tried to pull his hands free, push up from the narrow bed. Grant had proved his supersoldier strength had still been mostly intact through, and he’d held Bucky’s hands firmly and Bucky had subsided, stayed put, but his mouth had still gone on, and he had realized after that he’d been talking the whole time, “no-no-no-no” falling from his lips in a little, broken voice he didn’t recognize as his own even through all the years he’d spent with Hydra and all the creative, horrible things they’d done to him. And this feeling...the ringing in his ears and the hollow ache in his chest, raw and rough-edged._

_It’d been worse than any of it._

_He’d had to listen, in the end._

_Steve had gone back. In classic Steve Rogers fashion though, he’d disregarded much of the (painstakingly-crafted) plan almost immediately after stealing more particles, enough to make as many trips as he’d need. Bucky had suspected he would, and he hadn’t been surprised to hear that Steve had gone back to Peggy, unable to bear the idea of Hydra taking root in her de-facto child, her precious SHIELD._

_He’d gone completely rogue, had told her...everything, and the two of them had found Steve in the ice, this Steve, er, Grant in front of him, with the aged face and the sad, sad eyes. He’d come out, after only four years in, and then the three of them had gone to find Bucky._

_And...they’d found him. They’d gotten him out. But Hydra had been strong, stronger than anticipated. The timeline had changed enough, the balance of power shifted._

_Grant had choked here and Bucky had inhaled, holding his breath, because he knows, he already knows what is coming, but it’s the final blow, the coup de grâce that he doesn’t know that he can bear to hear, and he’d tugged at Grant’s hands, testing the grip again._

_Grant had held his hands firmly, and his eyes had met Bucky’s, bright with tears but unrelenting._

_Steven G. Rogers, Captain America, his Stevie, certified asshole from Brooklyn, had been killed in the rescue. Vaporized by a Tesseract-powered weapon in a freak accident, thousands of miles and hundred of years away from Bucky, gone in the blink of an eye._

_Bucky had curled into himself, and Grant had let him pull his hands free, and Bucky had felt at his chest because his heart wasn’t supposed to beat so fast, so hard, and the blood had been rushing in his ears and he’d learned techniques to fend off a panic attack but couldn’t remember anything, , just hearing the distant sound of Grant’s voice and blackness encroaching, and fuck, it really would have been easier to die in battle, because this…_

Bucky punches his pillow, imagines he’s punching the memories away. It’s momentarily satisfying, if ultimately ineffective, and he ends up tossing and turning late into the night. When he sleeps, finally, it’s shallow and fitful and his dreams are a disturbing mix of memories and reality, an endless parade of different Steves, dying on a metallic platform while Bucky tries again and again to stop the bleeding. He’s surrounded by an amorphous crowd, faces shifting and blank. He wants to call for help, but his mask is on, the one he wore for missions, and he can’t speak, can’t yell, can only press his hands deep and watch them be covered again, and again, in blood running dark. 

He wakes up, eyes stung with tears and gasping for breath, not completely sure when or where he is. It takes a deliberate breath, air in, slow exhale, and then a second. And then again, with the oxygen comes orientation, memories, _you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re in the cabin, in your bedroom,_ and his fingers relax from where they’re clenched tight into the sheets. Gradually, he’s able to fall asleep again, into a proper sleep. 

In the morning proper, all he can remember is that he’d woken up crying and stressed, and it makes him grumpy (grumpier than usual) when he’s making breakfast, grumpy enough that Bruce frowns at him when he drops the plates on the table. Bucky makes an effort to set Bruce’s coffee in front of him with more care, a move that only earns him a deeper frown. 

“Bucky..” Bruce seems to be fascinated by his eggs. They’re rubbery again, and Bruce mashes them with his fork, succeeding only in making them more unappealing. “It’s okay if it’s...weird for you.” 

Bucky focuses on his own cup of coffee. It’s hot, full of cream and sugar and just a little flat-tasting this morning. Bruce valiantly tries to carry on. “When I came back...” 

Bucky interrupts, suddenly unable to stand it. “I’m just tired. Didn’t sleep well.” Bruce nods at his eggs, accepting the excuse, and Bucky flees. He doesn’t think of it as fleeing, of course. He’s...making a tactical retreat to a less stressful location. 

He finds himself in the yoga room. It’s not truly a room, more of an enclosed porch. When Bucky had first come here, had decided to stay, it’d been dusty, filled with dead and dying plants, neglected in favor of more urgent tasks. One of the first jobs he’d set himself had been caring for the plants. Gentle coaxing had restored some to health, though others had needed to be tossed in the compost, and Bucky adds more as often as he can. Now, the rising sun illuminates the shining wooden floors, neatly rolled mats and comfortable chairs tucked into corners. Bucky had hung shades for when the sun got too oppressive, and the whole room has become a pleasant place to stretch and read and just _be._

He huffs as he curls himself into his favorite chair, an orange plaid specimen he’d rescued from the back of the grocery store, and carefully balances his coffee cup on his knee. He can’t fully articulate his discomfort, even to himself. The disruption to his routine, sure. He has a _routine,_ a good one — he and Bruce both do — and it does not involve renegade, injured Captain Americas from different timelines crash-landing in his yard. 

It’s...rude. It’s rude, and it makes him feel raw and unsettled in a way he hadn’t missed, and he doesn’t care for it. Even more unsettling is the part of his brain that keeps bubbling with excitement — _Steve, Steve, Steve_ — and that part, well. He’d like to push that part of his brain off a cliff or something, but instead he settles for draining his coffee and firmly resolving to keep out of the way as much as possible. After all, Steve is going to wake up, and he’s going to presumably want to go back to where he came from, or continue on to where he’s going. 

Days pass, and Steve doesn’t wake up. Strange returns with a nurse, and Bucky is shocked when Steve remains unconscious while being hooked up to various lines — IV for fluids, and after a day, another for nutrients, and then a catheter. Bruce takes samples and goes to work on his blood, and then, after pulling at his hair until it becomes truly wild, takes more samples.

In a greater fit of desperation, he collects samples from himself and Bucky for comparison. Bucky, perched on the counter, looks away from the tube filling with blood. He’s not squeamish, can’t be, but still doesn’t enjoy the sight of his blood leaving his body, no matter how gentle Bruce is with the needle. He frowns when his gaze falls on Steve. The bruises have faded a little but he seems otherwise unchanged, lying quietly in his bed.

Bruce caps a vial. “I’m going back with Strange. I need to use better instruments.” He looks rueful. “I hate going through those portals, but it’s better than spending a couple days in that truck.”

“The truck is fine!” Bucky protests, hurt on behalf of his vehicle. Bruce adds another filled vial to the row, starts another. “Last one. Bucky, I need you to take care of Steve. I don’t want to move him through a portal, and...” He shakes his head. “He wasn’t exactly in a good place when he woke up before, but regardless, I don’t want him to be in another new place, with more new people, if he wakes up again.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to do with the slightly sick sensation in his gut, can’t seem to keep his gaze on Steve, so instead he nods and deliberately watches Bruce fill the last vial. After, Bruce talks him through taking blood from him, and all the little things that need to be done for Steve each day. He gives Bucky chocolate after, a bar of something fancy with flecks of chili in it, and Bucky snorts but accepts the bribe-slash-peace offering for what it is. 

The next day, Bruce gets ready to leave, cooler of blood at his side and arms loaded with eggs and random produce that Bucky shoved at him, muttering, “Give this to Sam. We have too much.” 

Bucky suspects he's a bad friend; he forgets to call, leaves texts on ‘read,’ and he won’t go Avenging. But his chickens make good eggs, and he grows nice vegetables, and he hopes that says some of the things he can’t. Hell, he’d send an entire flock of chickens, if he could, but he doesn’t think Captain America wants squawky birds running wild at the new Avengers’s HQ.

While Bucky is entertaining himself with thoughts of Sam in his full Cap getup, attempting to conduct a mission debrief while surrounded by inattentive chickens, a golden portal flickers into existence in the middle of the kitchen. In seconds, Bruce is gone, and Bucky finds himself alone with his patient. 

It ends up being easier than he thought it would be, easier than he’d wanted it to be. He’s known, of course that there are more than one, of him, of Steve, of any of them. And not just intellectually, he’s seen it often enough in his trips back, his efforts to retrieve his own Steve. 

He’d made more than one miscalculated trip, and he’d seen a Steve who’d never gone to war. That Steve had been dipped and kissed passionately by a grinning, young Bucky. Steve’s long, slender hands had pushed through that Bucky’s carefully styled hair, gripped his uniform tight when he’d threatened to drop him, both laughing with pink cheeks. And that had certainly been a different timeline, because no one had batted an eye at two men embracing, kissing, right in the middle of day. 

That had been a good trip back, despite being ultimately a failure. On others, he’d seen matching tombstones, tense dinners, forks jabbing harshly into plates followed by quiet, sweet dancing in empty apartments. There’d been more iterations of Steve — quiet and sad, hair gone dark and long, beard unkempt. He’d seen himself, terrifying as the Winter Soldier, missing an arm or a leg, and in one horrible iteration, his eyes, glowing red. Once, he’d been in the stars and stripes, shield on his arm, and Steve, hair long and tangled, masked, had come for him, as mindless as Bucky had ever been. 

He’d seen a lot, enough to draw a few conclusions. The first is easy, and that is that this Steve, wherever he’s from, whatever he’s been doing, he hasn’t been fucking taking care of himself. (And really, isn’t that just another sign he is a legitimate Steve?) His initial impression on the platform had been size and hair and, _oh fuck,_ blood, but now, it’s abundantly clear this Steve hasn’t been cared for in a long time. 

He’s thin, incredibly thin — skin stretched tight over bone, muscle wasted away. The long, long blond hair had been tangled and Bucky had initially braided it roughly to get it out of Bruce’s way. His skin is fragile looking, purple shadows under eyes and deep, dark bruises that seem to have changed little. (Bucky pointedly does not look at his golden lashes, so long they practically rest on his haggard cheeks) 

The second takes him longer to realize, over the days of monitoring vitals, carefully tracking heart rates and blood pressure, oxygen saturation. Bucky carefully repositions Steve, propping him with pillows and cleaning his body and moving his limbs to keep them from getting stiff. He changes bags and linens, and watches as the bruises slowly, so slowly shrink in size as they turn a veritable rainbow of colors. He’s seen that before, in the ‘30s when Steve had seemed intent on setting a personal record for broken bones. 

Steve’s healing as slowly as a human, perhaps even slower. 

It takes Bucky a while to admit the last to himself, and even then he has to come at it sideways. 

At first, he’d felt like a pressed bruise every time he’d looked at Steve, each time he’d touched him, but as he falls into the familiarity of caretaking, he realizes he’s _missed_ being able to take care of Steve so fucking bad, and even if _this_ Steve isn’t his... 

Well, presumably, he’s someone’s Steve, and some Bucky somewhere has lost this man, ostensibly misses him. He imagines someone equally barbaric for this Steve, someone in a fucking kilt with an axe for an arm, and during the day he imagines that he’s taking care of this Steve for that Bucky, that he’s doing what any decent human would do. 

It’s only at night, alone in his bed that he can admit he likes it for his own sake, that being near Steve taking care of him is easy and familiar and feels _good,_ eases something deep inside, releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

One day slips into the next, and Bucky slowly begins to spend more and more time at Steve’s bedside. He tackles Steve’s hair, carefully supporting his head with one hand while washing and detangling the matted strands, and then rebraids it neatly. He plays music, mostly the pop he has a weakness for, but also music from his own time and rock and _musicals._

Bucky keeps his caretaking duties even when Bruce comes back, followed shortly by a small fleet of workmen who retrofit the lab under Bruce’s supervision. So Bucky hums tunelessly while he changes sheets and makes sure Bruce eats instead of living in the lab nonstop. Bruce had confirmed that Steve _is_ healing, but as Bucky had suspected, human-slow, at minimum. 

Bruce rants about it over dinner, visibly frustrated. “He _has_ the serum, some version of it, but Bucky...” He pauses to stab at an errant carrot. “It’s like it’s...twisted or broken, but not in any consistent way I can isolate...and the gamma! The levels of gamma in his tissues are off the chart, even compared to me!” 

Bucky lets the words wash over him. Steve’s still largely unconscious, but he and Bruce both think he’s rising, getting closer to the surface. He stirs occasionally, eyes sightlessly fluttering open and then closing. He seems to dream, limbs twitching and low moans coming from his throat. Sometimes Steve pulls at his lines, but he always goes calm when Bucky holds his hands and talks gently to him. 

Bucky spends a lot of time talking to Steve. He talks about his own Steve; loving him and losing him again and again. The war, the Howlies, the serum. He even taps into some of the easier stories of his long captivity — ballet lessons with the Widows and the incredibly strange time he’d been assigned to train cats to spy. Hours are dedicated to Wakanda — mostly the incredible birds and astonishing tech, but also the care and keeping of goats and the seemingly endless ways he’d been pranked. 

He talks and he talks, until his voice goes hoarse. And one afternoon, he’s telling a particularly convoluted story, just rambling, really — while folding fresh laundry (they really have been going through towels and sheets at an alarming rate) when he hears an unfamiliar voice, rusty and choked with disuse. 

“B..Buu..Buck?”

Bucky nearly rips a hapless towel in his surprise. 

Steve hasn’t moved, is still lying propped up in the bed, but his eyes are open and _aware_ and so blue, and he’s staring straight at Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:**  
>  -Flashback to Bucky being told about Endgame Steve's presumed death  
> -Steve undergoes some medical procedures, wakes up in the middle of having a wound stitched, and panics before he is sedated.


	7. chapter 6 - safe from my trouble and pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Earth, Steve begins to recover from his injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> medical procedures/distress during a medical procedure
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Earth 2027 - the Cabin_

When Steve had fallen from the cliff, he’d fully expected to die. 

The exact manner of it...had been less clear to him. He had been certain that at least one of his wounds was fatal. Perhaps not under normal circumstances, but in his weakened state, they were dire blows. And then there was the fall — from a great distance, much farther than he’d ever fallen before, and without the desire or wits to even attempt a safe landing. 

He hadn’t been sure what would happen — if he’d lose consciousness or if he’d be aware to the last minute. And, it had been suddenly so important to make those last minutes count. So, he’d let his weapons go, had let his mind run through those he’d loved best. His mother on his long lost home planet. Devil. He’d hoped that Devil wouldn’t look for him for too long, wouldn’t mourn forever. 

And Bucky...that had been who he’d thought of last, and as he’d fallen, he’d hoped there was some sort of afterlife, some place where they could be happy together.

He had fallen for what had felt like hours instead of mere seconds, and _ah_ , unconsciousness it was to be, finally, and he’d surrendered to the blackness, gone willingly into its embrace.

So, Steve had felt justified in his...confusion when he kept...waking up. 

The first time had been confusing and unpleasant. He’d awoken disoriented, with fear sparking through him and the dizzying feeling of continuing to fall. 

Not from a cliff, ground coming up to meet him at last — his surroundings had defied description, neon and pulsing, seemingly designed to melt his brain, while a high pitched screaming wail had assaulted his ears. He’d have covered them if he’d had any control of his body. 

The pressure had grown greater and greater, like when he’d dived too deep into the ocean and struggled to reach the surface, the water pressing in at all sides and his lungs desperate for air.

It all intensified around him for one bright, sharp moment, and he’d found his voice, been able to scream even as the air rushing past had ripped the sound away. Then the moment had broken and he’d fallen, landing heavily on a hard surface.

He’d panted for breath, open-mouthed and incredulous, because while he’d hardly been comfortable, he also was decidedly _not_ dead. Slowly, his senses came back online — touch and the metallic taste of iron in his mouth, and _oh_ , pain. He may very well be dying anyways because he wasn’t wrong. He had been sorely wounded, and he can feel it, in his side and a dozen other places, ribs protesting with the slightest movement. 

With vision and hearing, he’d become aware, distantly at least, of the sound of voices, a whispered, urgent argument, light falling on him, and that had spurred him to attempt an upright posture while the scent of ozone had lingered sharp in his nose. 

Perhaps he’d died after all, and his guides to the afterlife were to be these arguing fellows.

Regardless, it’d hurt badly as he’d pushed himself upright — he’s always aware of the serum, and he can feel it now, straining to bring his bones together, to close up his side, and something else is _different,_ something indescribable. All of that comes to a crashing halt, slides to the back of his brain as he gets a good look at the men in front of him. 

He barely sees the first, eyes sliding over to the second, and Steve...simply can’t believe his eyes, would be even less certain that he’s still alive if he didn’t feel so...battered. 

Somehow, impossibly, Bucky Barnes is standing right in front of him; shock on his face and tears standing in his gray eyes. It’s not the Bucky he knew; he knows that right away. This man reminds him of...earlier, much earlier, and Steve takes him in all in a rush. 

He’s dressed strangely — at least for someone holding a long, wicked knife — his tight, dark pants hiding little of his body and seemingly poorly-suited for combat of any kind. He too has lost his left arm, but bears the dark metal prosthetic easily, standing upright and well-balanced. 

His chest is bare, which is a familiar enough sight. Bucky had rarely worn a shirt once they’d settled on Battleworld. Steve had teased him often enough about his aversion to covering his pectorals, even as he’d enjoyed the view. Bucky had rolled his eyes and made a show of flexing even when doing simple tasks. 

This man’s face...it’s not _his_ Bucky, Steve _is_ certain of that, and yet, meeting his gaze directly sends a bolt through him, brings the empty ache that’d gnawed at his heart for so long back with a rush, and it’s suddenly all too much, too overwhelming. 

The pain in his body is incredible, and his ears are ringing. Vaguely, from a great distance, Steve realizes he’s falling yet again, but somehow, he doesn’t hit the ground, hangs suspended for just a moment before everything fades away. 

When he’d woken up for the second time...he’d been convinced he was in some circle of Hell. Consciousness had come for him quickly, and he’d awoken all of a sudden, only to find that he’d been surrounded, body lying limp and unresponsive to his demands. 

Sheriff Strange had been at his flank, and Steve had been certain he’d killed the man, but there he was, engaged in some sort of foul torture. His hands had been encased in blue gloves and coated in blood, working deep in Steve’s side. Steve had tried to cry out, to yell, to _move,_ but the best he’d been able to do was a tortured groan and enough movement to grip Strange’s wrist, trying to prevent further damage. 

The hulk on his other side had moved in closer, lips moving soundlessly, needle shining sharp in his large, green hand, and Steve had tried to struggle, managed to generate only the weakest of movements, and then there’d been pressure on his legs, and _Bucky_ was there, helping his captors, holding him firmly at the thighs. The hulk jabbed the needle deep into his neck — a sharp, transient pain — and then his body had gone limp again, beyond his control. 

This, Bucky’s complicity in his torture, is what had convinced him he’d been transported to a Hell dimension. He’d stayed awake long enough to feel tears wet his cheeks before he’d faded again, and he’d been grateful to go this time, hadn’t wanted to see what further atrocities waited for him. 

The last time...hadn’t been so bad. 

Steve and Bucky had had a summer off together between the start of the war, well before Battleworld. They’d spent countless days at the lake, each warm, lazy afternoon drifting into the next. Steve had spent hours floating in the cool water, suspended and weightless, blue sky endless above him. Bucky had had to pull him out of the lake more than once. He’d laughed as he’d kissed Steve’s shriveled fingertips and sighed, low and content, as he’d pulled Steve down to nap beside him. Steve had let the sun slowly heat him, ground him as surely as Bucky’s soft snores beside him, and then he’d gone back in to float again. 

Waking this time had felt like the lake, Steve’s mind drifting ever closer to shore, water becoming warmer and shallower, body heavier. 

At first, he’d only been vaguely aware of things around him, happening to him; the distant sensation of his limbs, his body being moved, light pinprick pains and deeper aches, the invasive, too-intimate feeling of medical equipment in his nose, his cock, deep in his veins and arteries. But the pain gets worse the closer he gets to shore, though other things are better. Sometimes there is music and sometimes there are voices, too far to understand but pleasant and deep nonetheless, and now he can tell that the hands on his body are gentle, always gentle. 

And so gradually he barely realizes it, existence becomes real and immediate, and one of the voices he’s heard before snaps into focus.

“...it was fucking ridiculous. I still want to know why it was green lit, let alone funded. And even more, why I’d been assigned. You have a sniper, an assassin who will do literally anything, and you ask him to train cats? To spy?” 

There’s a laugh, dry and a little hoarse, and Steve tries to peel his eyes open, desperate for some kind of volitional movement, some kind of control.

“Anyways, if they’d asked me, which of course, they didn’t, I could have told them it was pointless. Cats are gonna do whatever the fuck they want, whenever the fuck they want. Any ‘training’ is on their terms, and their terms only. They see something better, a sunbeam or some catnip or a nice...”

Steve manages to get his eyes open, and it’s horrible at first, a bright, blurred swirl of color and light, but he blinks, again and again and gradually his vision clears, and he can see the source of the voice.

It’s Bucky, or his counterpart, and he looks strangely domestic, fussing over a basket of linens. As Steve watches, he sets a folded towel on a precarious looking stack, smoothes it, then plucks another from the basket. His dark metal hand works smoothly with the flesh one, and his face is relaxed, lips curling upwards as he describes the exploits of one particular cat; a round, clever specimen who apparently demonstrated extreme skill during training, only to disappear on his first mission. For all the amusement about his mouth and in his voice, his eyes are sad and tired.

Steve is surprised to feel his own lips moving, even more surprised when, after a few attempts, he hears his own voice come out, hoarse with disuse but intact. 

“Buck?”

The next hour or so is a blur. Bucky (maybe) had been shocked to hear him speak, to see him awake, and had promptly shredded the towel in his grip. 

Steve, bolstered by his success with speaking, immediately tries to get out of bed. That isan unmitigated disaster, his body utterly failing to cooperate with him. 

“Hey, whoa, okay, OKAY, just hold on.. _shit._ ” His apparent caregiver ( _captor,_ his brain can’t help but supply, remembering this Bucky holding his legs fast) scrambles to catch him, attempting to hoist him back onto the bed in a most undignified manner. Steve is seized with a wild desire to prevent that from happening. He will not be restrained!

“Let. Me. Up.” Each word is increasingly difficult to get out, but he manages even as the man tries to straighten Steve’s torso — lying askew and half off the bed — talking soothingly all the while. 

“Hey pal, it’s okay, let’s just...uh, I should really call Bruce, see if he can get back here...oh, hey, you really...should not...” He trails off weakly as Steve, emboldened, begins to struggle in earnest, managing to get one leg flung over the edge of the bed. Success!

Steve has no control over his trunk, just flings it bodily forward, aided by momentum, hoping his muscles will come awake. 

That...does not happen. 

“HEY, okay, just calm the fuck down.” The man’s voice rises, sounding frustrated. 

He manages to get Steve back onto the bed, and for all he’s bearing Steve’s full body weight, and his jaw is clenched tight, his hands are still gentle. Steve ends up propped at the edge of bed, body positioned awkwardly but no longer in imminent danger of landing on the ground. Steve becomes aware of another biological urge. “I gotta take a piss.” 

Bucky looks pained. “You have a fucking catheter in. A tube in your dick, collecting it all.” He clarifies, like Steve doesn’t understand basic medical technology. “You’ve been out for a long time...just...take it easy. Okay?”

Steve is _not_ okay. “I want to get up. Now!” One of his legs is close to the edge of the bed, and he manages to lever it off. It’s more from momentum than actual control but that is good, that is progress, one more step to feeling the earth beneath his feet. 

“Oh Christ.” The man covers his eyes for a minute. “How about...we just sit up for a minute, okay? Can we start there? Please?” Steve considers. He doesn’t feel as well as he might, but he feels desperate to not be lying helpless another minute, desperate enough to accept the offered compromise. He nods in agreement. 

“Okay, good, can I...will you let me help you?” And Steve nods again, because his feeling of unwellness is not easing. 

Despite the difference in their stature, this Bucky is strong beneath the loose folds of his blue sweater, one arm sliding beneath Steve’s shoulders, other hand guarding all the myriad wires and tubes coming from seemingly every part of his body. Steve is able to scoot his own legs, and before he knows it, he’s sitting up. He’s not doing much on his own. It seems to require a Herculean effort to keep his trunk upright, and he’s grateful for the solid presence in front of him, Bucky’s knees pressed against his own, hands firm on his shoulders.

“I...want...I’m not...I don’t...” Steve’s not sure what he’s trying to say, words coming from his throat in a tangled jumble, and he’s sweating because he _really_ doesn’t feel well, nausea curling in his belly, but also he’s beginning to realize he’s moved worlds yet again, simply picked up and moved like a piece on a chessboard without his consent, without any thought for his desires, and he’s panting now, open-mouthed. 

“Hey, sshhhh, I got you, you’re okay” And Steve can feel gentle hands on him, one tucking his head into a warm neck, another moving on his back in little circles. Steve focuses on those points of contact, the low, soothing voice as the room begins to spin. “Steve?” There’s an uptick in the voice, a question, but it’s one he can answer, so he nods his head. 

“Alright, Steve, good, you’re okay, you’re safe here, no one is gonna hurt you.” The man keeps talking, voice a low singsong.“I’m Bucky, you got that right. You’re on Earth, and Steve, you’re okay, you’re safe, you’ll be safe here as long as you need, you’re gonna be just fine.” 

Slowly, Steve _does_ begin to believe him, that he might be in a safe place, though it doesn’t stop the spinning or quell the nausea that’s beginning to feel like a living thing moving through him. An alarm is ringing, but it’s a distant annoyance he can barely hear over the rush in his ears and Bucky softly cursing. 

His last thought before darkness claims him is that he’d wanted to ask Bucky about the cat in his story, if it had been safe, if there had been a happy ending. 

This time, Steve isn’t surprised when he wakes up again, though he has no sense of how much time has passed. He’s tucked back into bed, pillows plumped around him, and his eyes are barely open before the hulk is at his side. He tenses. 

“Steve? I’m Bruce, and I’ve been taking care of you with Bucky here." Bruce's voice is casual, level, as he gestures to the corner of the room. 

Bucky’s curled up in a faded green recliner. The recliner’s seen better days, stuffing poking from between its seams, and Bucky’s head hangs at an awkward angle, tangled hair covering his face. Steve spares a moment to hope that Bucky’s neck will not be too out of sorts when he wakes, and then he turns his attention back to Bruce.

“Steve, I’d like to take your vitals, if that’s okay.” Steve nods, movement small, and despite the nerves thrilling through him, he is pleased by the amount of control he has. He watches Bruce fuss over him, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his arm, taking his pulse, and that is strange too. He’d been a modern man, once, before his planet had been destroyed and he’d found himself on Battleworld, a place often medieval and devoid of many of the trappings of civilization. It’s like a strange homecoming. 

Despite Steve’s apprehension, Bruce’s hands are competent and gentle, and Steve gradually begins to relax. He hadn’t always been mistrustful, but after his past — Doc Green and Sheriff Strange, Doom; awakening during — well, it had seemed like torture, at the time. Steve fumbles at his side, feels a bandage where Strange’s hands had been inside him. A surgeon then, in this timeline, and Bruce is clearly a medical professional as well. They hadn’t been torturing him, after all. 

And, Bucky betrays no fear or concern. Indeed, he’s sleeping so deeply that he’s snoring — a soft, wheezy noise. That too is another point in Bruce’s favor, even as Steve acknowledges it is likely just as foolish to trust Bucky, but that’s something he cannot help, at an instinctive level. 

Steve relaxes further as Bruce finishes taking his vitals, recording the numbers meticulously. Bruce is not particularly intimidating for someone so large. He has a restrained manner about him, a way of making his body seem smaller than it is, and his face falls easily into worried lines rather than cruel ones.

“Bucky made a bit of a mess of things earlier...”And Bruce shoots Bucky’s snoring body a _look._

“And I suspect your blood pressure probably got a little low, made you pass out.” Steve has an irrational urge to defend Bucky, but he just nods and Bruce carries on, asking questions in a calm, measured fashion. 

“Any pain? Headache, nausea, dizziness, anything?” 

Steve considers. “None of it is worth noting.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Okay, tough guy, noted.” Bruce keeps talking, keeps asking questions, and some of it Steve knows — that he’s on Earth, though the year surprises him — _2027_ — he’s jumped nearly a decade.

He’d known, of course, that there are multiple planets, that travel into strange dimensions is possible, and that there is a strange multiplicity at play across the universe. Hell, it had defined his very reality when he had murdered his own doppelganger.

Steve’s broken from his reverie by Bruce’s next question, and despite his musings, it startles him to be asked so bluntly as to his origins — it hadn’t been done on Battleworld. Most hadn’t wanted to remember, or couldn’t. 

“I... _was_...from Earth. Before, but then...” He trails off, not eager to discuss the loss of his home, for all of Bruce’s apparent sympathy. Bruce seems to sense his discomfort and switches gears, beginning to summarize the myriad insults to Steve’s body. 

Steve begins to feel a bit dizzy at the recitation. The list is...not short. Midway, Bruce breaks off.

“Steve, I, uh, don’t want to pry or assume, but. Well, of course, you’re from a different planet, a different dimension, but..from what I’ve seen of your blood, well, you have a version of the serum we all have.” And he nods to include himself and Bucky, who wakes with a snort. As Bucky leans forward, the recliner springs squeak. His gray eyes are intent and focused, no hint of sleep clouding them.

Steve laughs unexpectedly. It’s hoarse, and it makes him cough, and that is not pleasant, causing aching in his ribs and spine. Bucky is there in a flash, pressing his hands against Steve’s rib cage, supporting him. When he gets himself under control, Bucky steps away, and Steve tries to answer. 

“If you’re asking if my healing factor works...” Steve jerks his chin at his body, so weak and unresponsive. “It doesn’t seem to be, now. It’s...” He sighs, not sure even where to start, resigned to telling at least some of it. 

“I have not lived on...Earth for many years. We...my warbound and I, we were taken from our own planet to a new planet, one formed by malevolent forces, and flooded with gamma radiation. We were not the only such inhabitants — nearly everyone there had come from some other place, and the gamma...”

He takes a deep breath, winces at the ache of fractured ribs. “The gamma changes everyone, everything, but it’s not...consistent in its results.” 

Bruce snorts a laugh, and Steve gestures at him 

“Many end up like you, or some permutation. I myself grew taller, my bones are...more dense I believe. Other such changes.”

Steve doesn’t mention how painful it had been, to feel the gamma tear into him, to feel the very cells of his body re-order themselves. At night especially, his legs had ached and ached, no matter how Bucky had rubbed them, hands strong and firm over his calves, his thighs...Steve sighs. 

“I’ve stopped healing. It’s like...I can feel it _trying,_ but it is weak now. I...fear...I..” He cuts off his rambling. He does not need to air this deep fear, that he had broken his own serum beyond repair with his neglect, and no accusations come from Bruce or Bucky. 

Indeed, Bruce seems relieved that he is already aware of the malfunction in his serum, reassures him that it _had_ been working at some point, at least enough to prevent his injuries from being even more catastrophic. 

“And, you are healing here, not like a supersoldier, more like a normal human, but it does mean...” The rest...Steve gradually grows sleepy, his responses to Bruce’s inquiries growing more and more delayed as his eyes grow heavier, but he gets gist of it.

He will stay here to recover (if he desires), and Bruce will attempt to fix his serum. Steve has a brief moment to savor the novelty of actually falling asleep rather than passing out in an assortment of suboptimal conditions before his eyelids are finally too heavy to pry open again and he drifts off, between one thought and the next. 

Steve’s recovery is...largely uneventful, though far longer than he would have imagined. Initially, his small room is beset upon by people at all hours — doctors and therapists of all sorts and nurses, scientists — and when they all leave, his homework from them is exhausting and seemingly endless. 

Bruce disappears, more often than not, working to unlock the secrets of Steve’s serum, and for the first few weeks, Bucky becomes Steve’s near constant companion. Bucky helps Steve sit up, feeds him when his hands shake too badly, and cleans him with gentle efficiency. 

Steve would be ashamed, if he had the energy for it, but he doesn’t. At first, each task takes his full attention, all of his strength, and Bucky makes him do as much as he can, every time. The man has seemingly limitless patience, willing to wait while Steve dresses himself as slowly as a child learning for the first time. It’s a struggle to get his arms and legs in the right places, and Buck only occasionally takes pity on him by flicking a fold of fabric into place or murmuring a quiet, “Little toe is stuck.” But the day Steve dresses himself entirely with no help, he feels a leap of triumph in his chest. 

His outfit is composed of things he thinks are a hodgepodge from Bruce and Bucky’s closets — green sweatpants that are loose around his waist and an ugly shirt with an eagle on the front, flag clutched in its talons. He wiggles his toes. The socks were the kicker — they’d been horribly difficult to put on, and he’d had to rest for a full minute in between each one, but, now he...likes them. They’re incredibly soft and fuzzy, striped in a dizzying array of colors, and he’s always struggled with cold feet, especially of late.

As a reward, Bucky lets him go outside for the first time since he’d arrived, though they argue their way around to it. Bucky might have yet untapped stores of patience for Steve’s physical recovery, but he has considerably less tolerance for Steve’s crankiness, which increases exponentially as Steve has more energy. They’ve...had more than one go around.

“Steve! You’re gonna choke, spit that out.”

“Oh, Christ, Steve, you’re gonna...FUCK, I told you, get the fuck back in bed.”

“...I don’t even want to know how you got there.”

Steve is aware that he’s not a particularly good patient, but he nonetheless finds himself testing Bucky, testing himself — refusing help to get up, snapping when Bucky makes him wash and braid his own hair, arms shaking, insulting the food, which, more often than not is burned. He questions his medications and pulls his lines countless times, and always, always pushes himself over the edge of his limits. 

This particular morning, even high on his accomplishment, is no different when Bucky proposes that he carry Steve outside. 

“I can walk there! I am no invalid, to be carried place to place.”

“Steve, I hate to break it to you, but you are kind of an invalid right now. You can be carried, or I can find you a wheelchair.” 

Steve sputters in outrage, and attempts to get up, and Bucky blocks him. He’d learned quickly enough not to trust Steve to stay put when he had it in his mind to move. 

“Hmm, I don’t know, you’re getting kind of worked up.” Bucky rests a hand on Steve’s forehead, frowns. “Maybe you should just go back to bed, rest up.”

“No!” Steve leans into Bucky, attempting to shift his weight forward enough to stand. Steve honestly had not even considered going outside until Bucky had mentioned it, but now that he has...he cannot stop thinking of how small his existence has grown, closed in by these four walls. It’s not that his room is uncomfortable. It is exceedingly comfortable for an infirmary, the medical equipment mixing with the clean, comfortable furniture and warmly colored walls in a combination that is somehow not odd.

But he has been inside for so very long...the thought of fresh air and open space is incredibly compelling. Equally though, he cannot quell his desire to be responsible for his own self, to make it outside under his own power, especially since Bucky has questioned his ability. 

Bucky’s tone is cajoling. “Come on, you haven’t walked more than a step or two yet, and I don’t think you’d make it outside if you tried. Just let me carry you.” 

“I went all the way to the bathroom myself the other day!” 

Bucky lets out a very, long suffering sigh. “Steve, you crawled there. You ripped out half your lines, bled all over the floor, and nearly blacked out when you started peeing.” 

Steve cannot argue with that assessment, but still, he clenches his jaw, determined. Bucky stares at him for a long moment, frustration all too clear in the set of his mouth. He sighs, capitulating. 

“Fucking hell, okay, but you aren’t gonna like it when I have to catch you.” 

“You’re correct, but you will have no need.” 

Most unfortunately, Bucky’s prediction of his abilities proves correct. Steve manages to get his legs under him, with a not insubstantial boost from Bucky, which Steve pointedly ignores. Coordinating his limbs...that’s a challenge, and he leans heavily on the walker that had appeared when he’d first been able to stand. It seems to take an eternity for him to make it to the door of his room, weaving an uneven path. 

He has to stop there, panting, sweat dripping into his eyes and heart racing, but oh, the thought of leaving these four walls, being out in fresh air, hell, seeing what this planet looks like, what season it is...those thoughts spur him to take another step, and then another. He’s in the hallway when his legs collapse completely, muscles twitching and fatigued, leaving him hanging on his walker. 

Bucky doesn’t let him linger in his failure for long, and in a moment, Steve’s arms are looped around Bucky’s neck, and then Bucky scoops up his legs, holding them firmly in place with the metal left arm. It’s...unaccountably intimate, to be carried against Bucky’s chest in this fashion. (Though Steve does spare a thought to be grateful that Bucky had picked this method of conveyance in lieu of slinging him over his shoulder, like a barbarian making off with a maiden.)

Before Steve quite knows what is happening, he’s being carried sideways through a door and oh Steve can finally breath properly, because he’s outside finally. Fresh air hits his lungs on his next inhale, crisp and cool. Bucky installs him in a comfortable chair, wrapping him in blankets while Steve looks around, greedy for the sight of trees, of green things growing. Only later, doe she realize that the table by him has all the things he uses regularly — tissue and a cup of water, the torture device he uses to improve his breathing, a tablet with the color matching game Steve likes pulled up.

Steve realizes that Bucky had no intention of keeping him inside, regardless of his earlier words, and had set up accordingly. 

“I’m gonna go take care of some stuff.” Bucky rearranges Steve’s table. “Try to stay put, okay? Please? I’ll be within shouting distance.” A little grin twitches around the edges of Bucky’s mouth “You did pretty good Steve, better than I expected.” And then he’s gone before Steve can respond, tromping down the wooden steps of the porch, skipping one along the way.

Steve wants to fume, realizing he’d been neatly manipulated into doing exactly what Bucky had wanted.

But...as he settles back into his chair, he can’t find it in him to be irritable. This planet...at least this tiny corner of it...is gorgeous to him. He thinks it must be summer, but it’s still early, sun just beginning to peek above the horizon, spreading pink and orange and hints of blue across the sky. The air is crisp and cool and, most importantly, completely absent of the oppressive weight of gamma radiation. 

Steve takes a deep breath, feeling that his ribs are properly expanding without pain for the first time, and lets it out slowly. His second breath is a sharp inhale, as something occurs to him for the first time.

He’s alive. The last few months...had been a near constant blur, from the moment he’d realized he was finally in over his head, that his number might actually be up, to his bewildering trip here and now...he’s not healthy, but he’s alive and he’s safe, and as he fights to keep breathing, air in, air out, he’s surprised to realize he’s...not unhappy about it. Slowly, he lets his head tip back against the armrest, squeezes his eyes shut. He’d been running on autopilot, survival mode, trying to get through each day and now? The storm’s caught up to him, and he’s without shelter, unable to stop the emotions running through him in a complicated mess.

Guilt...plenty of that, always has been, and it’s only grown. His failure to save Bucky, that’s an old spot, still tender if he presses on it, but distant. More immediately the knowledge that Buck’s heart would have broken to see Steve’s neglect of himself, of Devil, and even now, fighting his caretakers. He’d known, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to care. Now, he’s been given a second chance, one Bucky was never given, on a planet not designed to wring every bit of softness and care from them, and yet...he is still without purpose, direction, and how long will he even be here, before the universe supplants him again? 

It’s too big, too much to process, and when Steve tries to push those thoughts down, they run in other, equally painful directions. He misses his T. rex terribly, has been trying to avoid thinking of Devil, hoping that his warbound is well, has moved on from Steve. His own Earth had not been a place where dinosaurs dwelled, but even so he wishes Devil was here with him, a comforting presence even when he’d been into the carrion and had stunk to high heaven. 

Those thoughts at least ease his mind, and he can feel his lips curling in a tremulous smile. Devil had been a single-minded, practical creature, always focused on the goal in front of him. Steve resolves himself to emulate his warbound — to focus on becoming strong again, and then... Then, perhaps,he will be ready, ready to think on what his life might look like. 

He spends the rest of the morning wrapped up on the porch, absorbing everything, careful to keep his thoughts light, surface level, skipping from one tot he next. The smell of green things and birdsong, and the area surrounding the porch — grass giving way to tall trees, an extensive garden plot to one side — coop of chickens making sleepy noises — and a gravel driveway on the other. 

There’s a truck, rusted and battered, parked beside a smaller, sleeker vehicle in the driveway, and if Steve focuses his eyes, he can see cameras and other devices scattered everywhere — tucked into the eaves and secured to branches, and he wonders, idly, what other security there is. He’d been so focused on survival to this point, he hadn’t even considered what sort of facility this might be, it’s normal purpose beyond rehabilitating damaged men from alternate dimensions. 

He sits on the porch all morning, and before he knows it, Bucky is back in front of him. He’s...bright and vibrant in the sun, hair pulled back with small pieces escaping around his face and neck, cheeks pink. Steve feels very warm, and very soft, comfortable in his cocoon, and it’s easier than he thought to get the words out. 

“Bucky...I’m sorry. For earlier, and other times.” He clenches a fist, unable to fully articulate his desires, his motivations in a way that will make sense to himself, let alone the other man, even after a morning spent ruminating.

"Thanks bud, but it’s not my first rodeo.” Bucky's tone is wry. Steve lifts his eyebrows, does his best to look somewhat polite and questioning, and it must work, because Bucky crouches in front of him, wincing as his knee cracks. 

“Ugh. Steve, I’ve had a long life, and some of it...” he shrugs “Well, that’s beside the point. A fair chunk of my life has involved running after your counterpart, my Steve, and sometimes it was good, like when, uh...” Bucky trails off, and his cheeks go even pinker.

Steve wants to pry into that blush, but Bucky goes on before he can. “But a lot of the time, especially in the 30’s, it was clean up duty. Steve was always getting in fights, getting his ass kicked, and if he wasn’t doing that, he was sick and fighting me every minute, while I was wondering if I’d need a cemetery plot.” Bucky shakes his head. “All that, in between wiping his nose and counting coins for a doctor. He was a terrible patient! And after the serum, he was no better, he’d do shit all the time.” 

Bucky pitches his voice slightly higher, and Steve belatedly realizes it’s intended to be an unflattering imitation of Steve.

“‘Oh, Bucky, it’s okay that I fell out of a plane, I have a healing factor. Oh, Bucky, it’s okay that I ran directly into enemy fire, I have a healing factor. Oh Bucky, it’s okay if I...’” 

Bucky cuts himself off again, and Steve laughs. He can’t help himself. Bucky laughs with him, pushing back to his feet, this time ignoring the crack of joints. 

“Let’s get you back inside. It’s nearly lunchtime, and it’s getting warm.” 

Steve walks again, a few steps to clear the doorway. Bucky carries him the rest of the way, and he smells good, of his soap — something spicy that Steve hasn’t been able to place — but also sweat and earth, and Steve has an inexplicable desire to press his nose into Bucky’s armpit and inhale deeply. 

He wonders if Bucky is ticklish. His had been. 

“Steve...are you smelling me?” Steve can feel his face redden, and his response is immediate. 

“I can’t help it. You reek of poultry...and...and ill humor!” Bucky laughs outright, and Steve can feel his face redden further at feeling Bucky’s chest shake against him. 

“Ah, the dreaded ill humors. Little unkind to the chickies though. They can’t help how they smell.”

Steve is grateful to be deposited back in his bed, and even more grateful when Bucky leaves to shower before lunch.

Ill humors or not, that morning sets the pattern for the next couple of weeks — Steve doing as much to get get ready as he can, walking until he can’t go any further, and then sitting on the porch, sometimes doing exercises he’s been given — ones for his brain, his voice, his breath, and easier ones for his body, strengthening muscles, relearning fine motor control. 

Exercises can’t consume all of his time now, and now that he’s no longer desperately focused on survival, on...revenge, he has a lot of time to think, and he does. He thinks of his warbound often. The war, their captivity, the Killiseum. It hadn’t been good for Bucky. He’d been a gentle man, more likely to laugh than fight, to invite someone in for a meal and make friends rather than seek violence. 

Bucky had always fought because he’d needed to, had never understood the restless, furious energy that plagued Steve all his life. 

When Bucky had gone to the Red King...Steve had been furious. After...it’d morphed, into a complicated tangle in his chest, the missing and aching and wanting, overlain with anger that Bucky had thrown his life away for a broken promise, a promise on their behalf he hadn’t even told Steve about. 

Now though, with time and distance, Steve can recognize how wearing captivity had been on Bucky, how he’d longed for their prior life together. Bucky had hid his abhorrence for the manufactured violence with care, he’d feigned a cheerful mien for Steve’s sake. And Steve...he hadn’t wanted to see. He had not been content in their restricted life, nor had he chafed at it in the same way Bucky had. Steve had been committed to the long game, and only now he can see how frantic Bucky had been to get away, to agree to such a thing. 

He realizes now that Bucky would have agreed to any mission, sold anything he’d been asked for in exchange for peace and freedom for the two of them, and Steve had been too blind to see it before. 

He thinks now he may have done the same thing, had he been approached instead of Bucky, and his end may have been just as tragic. 

Steve doesn’t just think of his human warbound. He cannot quell his worry that Devil is still looking for him, concerned. Devil had had very strong opinions on what he had perceived as Steve’s inability to manage himself, even before Bucky’s death. 

And he watches this Bucky here and now. He watches Bucky a lot, more than he’s comfortable acknowledging. Steve watches as Bucky takes care of the chickens, feeding and watering and cleaning up after them. He watches Bucky dig in the garden and water it, repair all manner of items, and when he’s done, sit on the steps of the porch and poke at his phone or crack open a book. It never fails to engender a complicated range of feelings in him. 

The physical resemblance between this man and Steve’s warbound are unsettling, and Steve hunts for the differences, tries to train his eye to not immediately see his warbound, to see this man as his Bucky. There are so many similarities; the angle of cheekbones, eyes that particular shade of gray, just a touch darker. 

It gets easier after time. His warbound hadn’t been much taller but had been far broader of chest and thigh, particularly after the gamma exposure. 

Although Steve’s initial impression of delicacy when first seeing this Bucky had been challenged immediately after Bucky had hauled him around as easily as a sack of potatoes. And then destroyed after Steve had watched him dig up a truly ridiculous amount of dirt one afternoon. Bucky’d tossed his shirt aside after an hour or so, and Steve had been forced to conclude, smaller frame or no, this Bucky has ample...musculature. And...hair. 

The hair is one of the true, superficial differences, and Steve is fascinated by it. His warbound had kept his hair long as well, but it had been straight (and soft) and dark. And they’d been shaved, both of them, for the Killiseum. He’d grown used to seeing Bucky with a bare chest, had been used to the foul grease that had been used so their skin, their muscles, would shine under the lights, make them harder to pin. 

This Bucky has ample hair on his face and his chest and falling over his shoulders in soft waves. It can be...distracting. 

There are other differences, of course. This Bucky is quieter, more reticent. He’s volunteered small bits of information here and there — that he was born over a hundred years ago, that the Steve Rogers of this planet is gone, somehow. Steve has learned other things, on his own — that Bucky prefers soft-looking, modern clothing, and his hair shines red sometimes in the sun. That he is likely the architect of the terrible meals they eat given his strained facial expression when Steve complains, and he likes music of all kinds. 

Steve is terribly lonely and it seems like it’s been so long since he’d been with his own Bucky — able to sit together and talk, to sleep curled together, even to fight together. It makes him hungry, hungry for details about this man, so like the one he’d loved. He knows Bucky had talked to him a lot before he’d woken up. He’d finally been able to ask him about the cat and had been relieved with the answer. 

“Oh! Right. Well, that cat, his official name was F132.A, but I called him Franklin. He went out for his first mission, got fed scraps by a shopkeeper at a market while he was supposedly waiting for his target, and then ended up going home with an old lady who thought he was the cat’s meow.”

Bucky had been quiet for a minute. “I went back for him — I was supposed to bring him back or kill him, but I took out his tracker instead. He looked like any other cat, kind of stripy and round.”

He’d grimaced “They put me on a shorter leash after that.” Steve had wanted to know more, but Bucky had (arbitrarily, Steve is sure) decided it was time for Steve to go through his exercise program.

Steve wants to know everything — the big things that seem to shape all of them throughout the multiverse — about the wars Bucky has seen, the experiments he’s subjected himself to. He wants to know if Bucky and his Steve had been close, husbands, not warbounds, he corrects himself. And he wants to know the smaller things, if Bucky had had a family before, if he loves romance novels in the same way his Bucky had, how he takes his coffee. 

But despite Bucky’s seemingly endless attention and care, he deflects most of Steve’s questions clumsily. Steve loses track of how often Bucky disappears to “do laundry” or “get lunch,” and Steve thinks there must be at least a hundred people in this home, for there to be such a need for ongoing laundering and food production. He doesn’t push though, tries to focus his every effort to regain his strength instead of poking at his caregiver, who very clearly has walls he wishes to maintain. 

And gradually, so gradually he barely notices it, Steve gets better. He graduates from the walker to a cane, stops napping several times a day, can get dressed without having to rest, and has energy left over to spare. Bucky seems to notice his extra energy, increased restlessness, and decides to put him to work. 

It’s morning still, cool and crisp, with clouds hanging heavy in the sky, when Steve makes his way out onto the porch, cane in hand. Bucky had been up earlier, out in the woods, and he meets Steve on the steps, pointing out the paved pathway for him to take with his cane. Bucky looks good, in tight blue jeans and a sweater, hair pinned up and nose pink from the chilled air, and he seems cheerful as he’d greets Steve. 

“Steve! You’re up! You ready to meet the chickies?” 

Steve nods, suddenly feeling...nervous. For all that he’s watched Bucky, it’s different to do it himself.  
“I’m ready, just...uncertain. I haven’t had the responsibility of anyone but Devil in years. And Devil, he was very self-sufficient.” 

Bucky is fumbling with the gate to the enclosure where the chickens roam, and he asks absently, “What kind of creature was Devil? Hell of a name, by the way.”

Steve beams, happy to be asked. “Devil was my warbound, my T. rex. He was wonderful! I am biased, of course, but he was very attractive for his species — a lovely red color, and well proportioned. And so loyal, and fierce, and really had a good sense of humor as those things go, for dinosaurs...” Bucky had gotten the gate open, but he’s stopped to stare at Steve, mouth parted. Steve wants to put his thumb on Bucky’s lower lip, feel the texture of it. 

Instead... “Bucky, your face will freeze like that, if you’re not careful.” Bucky snorts and shakes his head. 

“Well, if your standard for animal care is a fucking dinosaur, I think you’ll find the chickies a bit easier.” 

“Oh, well, Devil did not need much from me, beyond companionship.” 

They are mostly quiet after that. Bucky introduces Steve to the small flock of chickens — plump birds with shining feathers in brown, white, and black. They cluck happily around Bucky’s legs, and he points them out one by one. “That’s Eddie, the one with spiky looking feathers. Columbia is the colorful one, she’s real sweet, I hold her sometimes. Janet has the white feathers; she’s a bit fussy.” Steve does get to hold Columbia and is surprised how light and warm the bird is. Bucky shows Steve how to check for eggs, how to give them food and change their bedding and let them out for the day. He even has lettuce for Steve to give them. 

After, Steve feels...good, if tired. It feels good to use his body in a productive way, to provide for others and to be outside. He and Bucky sit side by side on the fence, Bucky hovering protectively until Steve is able to lever himself up before he hops up himself. They sit companionably in silence for a while, and Bucky breaks it, for once. 

“You..uh, must miss your dino...Devil?” Steve lets out a breath, an inhale he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Yes. It’s like...I have woken up with a piece of myself missing.” 

Bucky’s gaze is fixed on the chickens — they’re poking around the grass, eating bugs, but he glances sidelong at Steve and his voice is deceptively light, easy “Any good stories you want to share? All this — ” And he waves his arm, encompassing the cabin, the birds hunting for bugs, the woods behind them. “ — must be a big change.”

And Steve is so fucking happy to be asked, so he talks Bucky’s ear off, telling stories about Devil’s prowess in battle, his unrelenting loyalty, his frequent clumsiness and extreme stubbornness, and Bucky doesn’t say much, but he listens, and by the time they go back into the house for lunch, Steve feels a little less alone and a little more determined to find some sort of purpose.

He brings that up in his next check up with Bruce. It had been mostly a cursory exam, and not much of it had been new to him. 

“Good news, Steve, is that most of the damage has healed. But that big wound in your side, some of the other ones, those are still coming together, so you need to be careful of them. Otherwise...depending on what level of fitness you want to get to...” Bruce had shrugged, somehow conveying that any level of fitness acceptable to Steve is also acceptable to him. 

They relocate after the exam. Steve can finally navigate the whole of the house, can even leave his cane behind when he isn’t going too far, and the kitchen is one of his favorite places — clean, spacious and open, large sturdy table with big, comfortable chairs pulled up. The sun comes in through the skylights, illuminates the shining wood floor, the colorful rugs. He and Bruce settle there, cups of coffee at their elbows, and oh that has been one of the good things about coming here, having coffee again. 

“I...do not know. I had thought...” Steve trails off, tries to gather his thoughts. “I have always thought I would return to combat, in some way. I died..uh, nearly died fighting, and I don’t know any other way to be.” He becomes angry, suddenly. 

“Bruce, tell me, what is my purpose to be, what is the price to be for all this?” 

Bruce blinks, slowly. “Steve...there is no price.” A crooked grin quirks his lips. 

“If you have an interdimensional health insurance plan, I’ll bill that.” Bruce goes on after seeing Steve’s lack of comprehension “In all seriousness, there is no price. Yes, you are a stranger to us, but Steve...our Steve. He’d never deny anyone help, and we’d never deny him. I mean, it was complicated, especially at the end, but that’s the fact of it.”

“There’s always been something asked, before.” Steve muses. Enlistment, and war, for his health and the serum. Freedom, in exchange for blood and tears and love. This trip here, and his ability to heal. 

Bruce shrugs. “I can’t argue with that.” He brushes his fingers over his scarred right arm, face pensive. “There may be something, down the line, but I can tell you, it’s not our purpose, my purpose, to extract anything from you, unwillingly. And as to your purpose...well, that’s up to you. You want to go back home, we can try to make that happen. Your circumstances of arrival aren’t quite what we’ve seen before but...we’ve got the tech mostly. Although...” Bruce trails off, looking thoughtful. “You may very well get pulled back, or somewhere different entirely. Though since you came differently...maybe not?”

Steve winces. He doesn’t want to go back to Battleword, not exactly, the absence of Devil aside, but he isn’t sure he has a place here either, despite... And the risk of an entirely new planet, a fourth one...he redirects his attention to Bruce, who is still talking. 

“...there’s still your serum, that’s a mystery as well. You want to fight again — there’s a team, a group, and if you’re anything like Steve, they’d love to have you. You want help starting over, living as much like a ‘normal’ person as one of us can, well, we can help you with that too.” 

Steve feels adrift. It has been...so long since he’s had choices of any kind. He takes a gulp of his coffee. “I...wasn’t living with a mind to the future, before.” 

Bruce’s eyes are so understanding, Steve has to drop his own gaze lest he become overwhelmed. Instead he takes great care with stirring more milk into his coffee, watching the pale swirls dissipate. Bruce rests his hand on Steve’s shoulder as he gets up, groaning when his back cracks. His hand is warm, and his voice is gentle, compassionate, “We’ll try to give you time, as much as we can.” 

After he leaves, Steve puts his head down on the table. He doesn’t cry, but his eyes sting hot, mind racing, full of possibilities, wondering if he has a chance for more, to...live again. It’s a confusing whirl, and when Bucky bustles in later and begins the frankly offensive process he refers to as cooking, Steve is grateful for the distraction. 

“Bucky, come and sit down. Let me make the meal.” Bucky shakes his head, “No, you should rest, you’ve...” 

“I’ve done nothing this day, beyond being examined by Bruce, and drinking coffee.” Bucky seems hesitant 

“Can you even...”

“I can cook. I’ve had to do it most of my life, married to you...uh, my Bucky.” That shocks Bucky; Steve can see it. His cheeks go pink, and he seems to be speechless, drifting over to sit at the table, toying with the papers that seem to reproduce of their own volition in Bruce’s presence. Steve brings Bucky coffee, watching as Bucky puts in more sugar than seems able to dissolve. Steve’s still not sure of the nature of the relationship this Bucky had with his Steve, but while Bucky has been more open, more willing to share light, easy things, Steve hasn’t felt comfortable prying deeper. 

Pushing those thoughts aside, Steve turns to the kitchen. He doesn’t know where anything is and takes his time orienting himself, looking through the fridge, the cabinets. He finds plenty of vegetables, cheese, eggs, bread, spices, even bacon, and goes to work, chopping vegetables and beginning to cook them in butter. Bucky seems content to watch him, and Steve can’t resist poking at him a bit. 

“See, Bucky, these are spices I just added. They make food taste good. I’m not sure that you’ve heard of them, here on Earth. And! Now! I’m going to take out the bacon, before it burns.”

“Hey, I have been feeding your ungrateful hungry ass, you and Bruce both, for months now. A little thanks would be nice.” 

“Yes, Bucky, I am exceedingly grateful that neither of us have died from the sheer amount of carcinogens, or lack of flavor.” 

Steve is surprised to find himself smiling as he whips eggs, pours them over the vegetables, starts toasting bread. And he keeps up a running commentary. “Okay, so now the eggs are likely done, not like rubber the way you seem to like, but hopefully you will enjoy these anyways. And the toast! It’s done. Come and put the butter on.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but gets up anyways and obediently begins to slather the enormous stack of toast with butter. He stops immediately when Steve cries out, a little exhale of shock. Bucky is on him immediately, jaw set. “What’s wrong? What happened? Do you need to rest?”

“No! Bucky, I just burned myself, see?” Steve had gotten overconfident, had grazed his wrist on the hot rack as he’d attempted to take the bacon out of the oven. 

“Fuck” Bucky curses, and then before Steve knows it, his wrist is being submerged under cool running water, and Bucky is rummaging in a cabinet, emerging with an enormous first aid kit. 

He’s efficient and careful as he dries Steve’s skin, dabs an ointment over the reddened skin. After, Bucky wraps it loosely. This time, unlike all the other times he has attended to Steve, his hands linger for just a second, gently holding Steve’s wrist, gaze flicking up and then away. Steve can feel his own face growing pink, more pink than the heat of the kitchen warrants. He can feel the moment stretching between them, fragile and...

And then Bruce sails in. “It smells so good in here! Can’t be your cooking, Bucky. Steve, did you...?”

Bucky’s eyes flash open, and he drops Steve’s wrist, pulling his fingers back like he himself has been burned. Steve’s heart is in overdrive, thumping like it’s going to beat clear out of his chest, and despite how quickly he’d withdrawn, Bucky continues to hover at him protectively. So instead of telling him off, it’s just a burn, he’ll be fine, he sits with Bruce, while Bucky dishes up the truly astonishing amount of food that Steve had cooked. 

It’s a quiet meal, and after, Steve retreats to his room. He’s not tired enough yet to go back to bed, though he still needs a mid-afternoon nap more often than not. Instead he collapses into the recliner, feet kicked up, and he rests his own fingertips on his wrist. He touches the clean, white bandage that Bucky’s own hands had wrapped, and he wonders at the confusing whirl in his own head and gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -Steve's POV on waking up while having his side stitched - initially he is afraid/thinks he is being tortured. Later, he realizes that it was a medical procedure.


	8. interlude 2 - gonna be cuttin' the thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his trip to the 1940's goes wrong, Endgame Steve wakes up on Vormir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> self sacrifice, canon character death  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Vormir_

Steve wakes up on a cold stone surface.

He’s face down, and a particularly sharp rock is poking him in the hip. Slowly, groaning, he rolls over. Hands come up, pat at his body, All...the parts there, all seem to be in working order, though every inch of him aches. Even his hair hurts. 

The sky above is a shifting, sickly greenish shade; thick clouds giving way to clear dark, purple rolling through. Dark rock all around, rising to the sky in jagged peaks. Loose shale under his feet. And in front of him....a stairway cut straight out of the stone, uneven, twisting to the sky. 

Steve...thinks he knows here he is. Has heard this place described before. Against his better judgement, he grins, feeling his split lip pull. 

This...this is what he’d hoped for.

He’d held back one stone, just one, wanting to...

Wanting to try for this, as well. Wanting to bring her back. By any means necessary. 

Steve checks himself over by rote. Shield... _oh, _he thought he’d left it with Peggy...but here it is on his back. Body battered, uniform moreso, and he could use some food, but he’ll do. He’s surprised, actually, by how good he feels. He’d been sure that he was done for, that it had been the end for him, but here he is.__

__He squares his shoulders and puts his foot on the first step._ _

___It’s hard_. It ends up being so much harder than he’d imagined. The physical activity itself is simple enough. Steps, one after another. Pick up your foot, put it down. There are points where the stairs twist, narrow, and he has to cling to the side of the wall, and others where they have worn down, a steep incline of loose shale to navigate. _ _

__He mostly walks, but sometimes, he has to rest. And other times, he has to crawl._ _

__Because it’s not the stairs, per se._ _

__It’s the inhabitants._ _

__The ghosts, the memories._ _

__Pressing close, holding him down, holding him back. Wrapping long fingers around his ankles, his wrists, until has to fight to bring each foot forward._ _

__When he crawls, they ride him, and when he rests...they push in close, touching his hair, touching the shield, pulling at the straps of his armor._ _

__Laughing and chattering and sending his mind racing._ _

__There are familiar faces...those he’s loved in the past, those he’s wronged. Peggy. Gabe and Dugan and the rest of the Commandos. His own mother, though her fingers are gentle, the merest hint of a sighing caress before she dissipates._ _

__A countless legion of Hydra’s minions...and while he does not feel guilty, it still pulls at him, to have killed so many and to see them only as a mindless, shifting mass._ _

__Some stand out...Pierce, Zola, Sitwell, though he had no active hand in their deaths._ _

__Tony...that ghost is particularly difficult, blocking his way, merging with him, causing painful stuttering in his chest, and it takes Steve collapsing to the stairs and sobbing, sobbing out the grief and regret he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before._ _

__He and Tony...they’d never truly been friends, for all of Tony’s protestations to the former. But they’d been bound, inextricably, and if things had been different...well, Steve would have liked to be friends. To have been able to laugh at Tony’s sarcasm, his wit, to have appreciated his inventions, to have continued fighting side by side in more than uneasy peace_ _

__He’d have liked that, but events had been bigger than the two of them._ _

__Finally, the ghost leaves him be, fingers raking over his back, then over the shield in a soft, almost apologetic touch._ _

__Red Skull appears, halfway up, and that....that gets Steve right up on his feet, yelling and screaming and jabbing a finger into his chest, only...to have it go straight through._ _

__The Red Skull’s attempts to deliver his spiel about being the caretaker of the Soul Stone, swirling his cape with what Steve feels is unnecessary drama, and anyways, Steve’s not interested. Turning his back, he firmly marches up the stairs, faster than he’d been able to manage so far, leaving Red Skull trailing behind him like a spooky, sullen child. Steve wants to fight him, but..._ _

__Well, Red Skull had thrived on attention, drama, something he’s been sorely lacking since being banished to Vormir. So Steve ignores him, ignores the wailing, the cruel jibes, and finally the threats — that Steve needs him, that he won’t figure out..._ _

__Steve blocks his ears, childish as it is, and keeps going, and finally, Red Skull pops out, with a dispirited squeak._ _

__That, at least, is very satisfying._ _

__And at the top, Steve finds he doesn’t need the Red Skull, doesn't need any directions at all._ _

__The sky stands in stark contrast against the stone, and the edge of the cliff is sharp, abrupt. He looks over, can see the echo of people past; Gamora, he recognizes, and Nat, and countless, countless others._ _

__He backs up. And he takes his time, folding his legs to sit, shield leaning against him._ _

__He sits for a long, long time, thinking. Thinking of what...the serum meant to him, what it did for him. What being Captain America was. A blessing at times, a curse at others. He’d been Captain America more than he’d been Steve, and sometimes, that had been easy. To hide in the persona, to hide in the shield, rather than expose himself, be vulnerable._ _

__It’d been a hindrance with his new friends in the 21st century. The weight of years of expectation, the shine of the shield, his own...fears, reluctance to be open, to be exposed. Too, it had been a hindrance with Bucky, with his other personal relationships. Even when he’d dropped the shield, left the Avengers, he’d still let it call him away, still followed that over everything, still hadn’t been just Steve._ _

__And, when he’d first taken up the shield, first as a patsy, a figurehead, and later, when he’d led the Commandos. He’d let that damage Bucky, had kept Bucky close for his own pride, his own image, his own desires._ _

__There’d been good, too. All the good he’d done as Captain America. And it had been a shield for him, too. It hadn’t been easy to be what he’d been. Sick, weak, so angry all the time, queer and knowing he couldn’t have what he wanted._ _

__Captain America had been, at least a little, what he’d wanted. He’d gotten to have it all, for a while. Strength, and power, and mostly he’d used it well. His guy by his side, in his arms. His team._ _

__He hadn’t been perfect, but he’d tried to do good._ _

__He can’t regret any of that._ _

__He’s scared, but he can’t wait any longer._ _

__Steve rises to his feet._ _

__There’s not much to be done, but he does it with care. He can’t see the point in stripping completely, but he rips the star from his chest, carefully pulling at the fabric until it tears and he can drop it to the ground. He’s...not sure how this will come out, but the symbolism, the symbolism seems important. He’d lost his helmet earlier._ _

__Next he pulls the shield from his back. He holds it for a long long moment. Traces the stripes, the star. Remembers the first time he’d held it. Remembers the times he’s dropped it, _who_ he’s dropped it for. _ _

__And he drops it again._ _

__Running, running towards the cliff, savoring, like he always does, the feel of air in his lungs and the burn of his muscles, the easy swing of his arms._ _

__And then he’s airborne, weightless, and he tries to keep his thoughts in order. Tries to think of love, of the love he has, for being Captain America and how it’s hurt, how it hurts, to let the shield go again. He thinks of Bucky, Sam, Peggy, his mother. He thinks of the rest of the Avengers._ _

__And, as he feels himself falling, ever faster..._ _

__He thinks of red hair, a smile full of secrets. Long nights and peanut butter sandwiches and insane missions ending in explosions and running. Hours and hours on the road, shitty motels and sparring and teasing, so much teasing._ _

__He thinks of Natasha, and his body hits the stone, and then he thinks of nothing else._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:**  
>  -Steve sacrifices himself on Vormir. His goal is to game the system, but he accepts that he will die if it doesn't work. I don't necessarily consider this to be a suicide attempt due to his state of mind, but please take care for your mental health as needed. Mental Health resources including crisis hotlines linked below.   
> -Brief appearances of characters who have died in canon as ghosts  
>    
> **Mental Health Resources:**  
>  **Suicide Prevention & Mental Health Resources**  
> The [National Suicide Prevention Lifeline](https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/) is (800)-273-8255 and is available 24/7.  
> The [Crisis Text Line](https://www.crisistextline.org/) is also available 24/7 (US/Canada text 741741, UK 85258, Ireland 50808)


	9. chapter 7 - daydreams to treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve settles into life on Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more wonderful art in this chapter from [whatthefoucault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault) <3
> 
> Note on canon - in the Planet Hulk comics, technically Steve calls himself Captain America once to be dramatic, but Sam is functionally the head of their unit, so he's Cap on Steve's original planet as far as I'm concerned. 
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> self-harm during an experiment  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Earth 2027 - The Cabin_

_Pop! Pop! Pop!!_ Bucky pauses, glass at his lips. He’d come in to get some water, expecting the house to be quiet and instead he hears...what appears to be extremely loud bubble wrap. He jumps and then rushes down the hall when he hears a resounding crash. 

Bucky follows the noise at a run, all the way to Bruce’s office-lab-retreat. As he gets closer, he hears the unfamiliar sound of...not screams, or cries of outrage, but...laughter. 

Upon entering the lab, Bucky’s eyes go wide. Bruce is in Professor mode, in the center of his thoroughly trashed lab. Pink, vaguely sinuous blobs cover every surface — the floor, the tables, even...Bucky glances up...the ceiling. As he watches, one drips slowly off the ceiling, landing on Bruce’s shoulder with a _splat_. Steve’s there, seated on one of the exam tables. He, unlike his surroundings, is clean, but as he turns towards Bucky...Bucky stops dead in his tracks. 

“Oh...your hair...” 

Steve grins, flips his braid over his shoulder. Bruce breaks into helpless giggles, clutching his side. 

Steve’s hair, the whole long twisting mess of it…

Is pink. Cotton candy, swirling with a delicate rose, streaks of neon, magenta, fuschia, and a deep, almost red running through it all. His cheeks are pink too, and his eyes are very blue. He looks too big, too vivid, and he should be ridiculous in his lime green tshirt, purple sweatpants, but instead he looks...fun. Fun and happy and bright. Even Bruce looks more cheery than usual, flushed with laughter and covered in goo. 

Bucky is suddenly angry.

Scene Art by [whatthefoucault ](https://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/637423336917532672/steves-hair-the-whole-long-twisting-mess-of-it) (Click for tumblr art post)

“What the _fuck_ are you two doing?! What is...” He waves wildly, trying to encompass the mess, the overturned table he just spotted, the _pink._ Bruce attempts to answer but just giggles a bit more. Steve tries to look chastened, but Bucky is not tricked; he can see the smile twitching at the edges of Steve’s lips.

“Bruce and I, we are engaged in experimentation!”

Bruce gathers himself. “Um, yes” He snorts, makes a second attempt. “I devised a catalyst of sorts. To, uh, jump start Steve’s serum.” Bucky waits. Both Steve and Bruce stare back at him. Bucky makes a point of looking Steve’s hair up and down, looking over the blobs that are now shimmering faintly and vibrating in place. It makes him vaguely queasy, to think of those blobs vibrating inside of Steve. He refocuses his attention. 

“Bruce, did it work?”

“Oh! Yeah, no.” Bruce pushes a goop covered hand through his hair, then winces. 

“It felt like it did, a little, when first I drank it.” Steve reaches for a knife that, fuck, Bucky hadn’t seen before — _what is wrong with him?_ Fast, too fast, Steve slices a cut across his forearm. Bucky wants to do a lot of things, wants to scream or yell or maybe just climb behind the overturned table and wait for them both to leave, but instead, he watches Steve’s blood ooze out of the shallow cut. 

“See?” Steve waves his forearm at Bucky. Bucky does see. The blood is also faintly shimmery. “It was much brighter before, very sparkly. And see, the other cut closed up, a bit.” Bucky can see a second cut, not fresh, but not healed, neat beside the first. Not quite human slow, nowhere close to supersoldier quick. 

Bruce nods in agreement with Steve’s summary of this extremely regimented scientific procedure. 

When Bucky speaks, he is proud of his control. His voice sounds level, relaxed, even. 

“So...you two. You two absolute _geniuses_ here, are telling me that you just _mixed_ up a potion...” He makes vigorous stirring efforts, unable to to keep his arms still. 

“And you...” He points at Steve. “Just..drank it! And you...” Points at Bruce. “ Let him! You’re a goddamn _doctor_ and a scientist and you let him just chug down something that made his blood shiny and his hair PINK!!! And he’s cutting himself, and you’re...covered in...how did this even happen? What is GOING ON?” 

Bucky loses control at the end, and he’s not proud of how his voice rises. 

“Hey, hey Bucky, calm down, alright?” Bruce says. He makes a show of removing his glasses, beginning to clean them. “First of all, I am not that kind of a doctor, you know that.”

“You have _medical_ traini...” Bruce holds up a hand, cutting off Bucky’s interruption. “I am _not_ that kind of a doctor. And second of all, it is _not_ a potion. It is a carefully measured and precisely calibrated tincture. Of course there is risk in experimentation, but we ran all the variables, and it’s safe, as safe as...”

“This...This all...does not _look_ safe!”

Steve had been fiddling with the end of his braid, and he chooses that moment to weigh in. “The pink will fade, Buck. It did before, very quickly.” 

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut. He looks from Steve to Bruce, who shrugs. 

He turns and walks out of the room. 

He has shit to do. He has a garden to dig. 

Hours later, Bucky has dug a much larger garden plot than he planned too, and he grunts as he tackles a particularly stubborn root. He’d been wanting to put in a new garden bed, had meant to dig up this plot earlier, but, between one thing and the next, he’d been busier than usual. 

Now, fueled by frustration and a healthy dose of irritation, it has progressed quicker than he expected. He mutters to himself as he flips the root free into a pile of roots and other random debris. 

“ _Safe_ says the man who radiated _himself_ , oh, fuck, wait _BOTH_ of them...” He stops for a minute, realizing he never did ask this Steve how he came to have the serum. It doesn’t matter. It was probably wildly unsafe. He feels confident extrapolating that much. Man hung out with a T. rex, after all. 

Shrugging, he goes back to digging. 

He can admit, having been the victim of unwanted body modifications, he is particularly...unreceptive to what he perceives as recreational experimentation. Sure, he knows Steve wants his healing factor back, doesn’t blame him at all for that, but still...to just drink something down, and then to _laugh_ about it. Ugh! He wonders, briefly, what Planet Hulk Bucky would have thought of Steve’s behavior.

He imagines that Planet Hulk Bucky also did a lot of digging in the garden, or whatever equivalent they had there. Probably vigorous weapon maintenance. 

He shouldn’t be surprised, though. Steve had proved to be complete menace. His recovery had progressed pretty much as Bucky had expected (feared). A few good days, a burst of overconfidence, and then a day or two of truly pathetic self-pity when Steve inevitably overtaxed his still-limited physical reserves. Even so, he’d gone relatively quickly from the walker to the cane, wounds knitting together into smooth shiny pink scars, even without the benefit of his healing factor. Still, Steve’s mobile now, _too mobile,_ Bucky thinks to himself as he tackles another root. 

And him and Bruce together...Bucky flips a root into the pile. The two of them and their questionable experiments. Steve’s enthusiasm seems to have flipped a switch in Bruce, one where he now sits up at all hours with Steve, looking over schematics and running calculations and _laughing_ , laughing while concocting all sorts of treatments.

Bucky stabs a weed with vigor. This is just the first of it, he’s certain.

Steve’s been good at occupying himself, between his own excursions and the absolute _shit_ he gets up to with Bruce...well, Bucky probably wouldn’t need to see him at all, does not need to stress himself out unnecessarily by witnessing such behaviors. 

But, Steve likes to have Bucky along, likes to talk to him, spend time with him. Steve cares that Bucky might be _unhappy_ about funny colored hair and shiny blood, and Bucky — 

Bucky hadn’t quite realized how lonely he’d been. 

The first couple years he’d spent after Steve had disappeared had been...bad, mostly. 

After the first, initial shock, he’d been solution-oriented. Steve had been lost in time. Ergo, he, Bucky Barnes, would try to find him in time. He’d had help, all the resources he could possibly throw at it, and it in the end... 

Well, in the end, it had amounted to fuck all. And faced with the prospect of an entire life stretching in front of him, _alone_...he’d gone off the rails, just a bit. He’d been (gently, lovingly and with great concern) thrown out of the Avengers for being too reckless, not a good team player, and he’d learned exactly how much he needed to drink to stay continuously buzzed. He’d learned that even a supersoldier can run out of tears, and that properly motivated...

Bucky tosses the shovel down and stretches until his spine pops. 

Steve is just infuriating, the literal personification of _irritation rage frustration grief..._

But...Bucky likes it, at least a little. He can admit that his irritation is largely at himself, that there’s always a degree of what next? that keeps him intrigued, laughing and drawing closer despite himself. 

He goes off to find the hose. The soil in the garden is terribly dry.

That night, Steve makes dinner. He’s taken over a large share of the cooking duties from both Bucky and Bruce, as he has reliably demonstrated a middle ground between ‘not burned’ (Bucky) and ‘uses every dish’ (Bruce). 

Steve is still pink, but true to projections, it’s faded already. When Steve leans over to serve Bucky, piling his plate high with a stew that Bucky is fairly certain contains some unfortunate rabbits that Steve hunted, Bucky wants to touch the end of his braid, see if the pink feels different than the blond. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, lightly, “Try for blue next time.” 

Bucky dreams that night, of soft pink clouds, warm sunshine and blue, blue skies. He wakes up feeling warm and soft, and he stays that way, right up until he’s happily engaged in poking through the fridge, looking to see if there are any good leftovers he can turn into breakfast. 

Bucky has gotten used to hearing, “Um, Bucky?” at all hours of the day and turning to see Steve, looking as small as a very large man can. 

Usually, it’s for something relatively innocuous. Sometimes Steve has seen something on the internet he doesn’t understand (half the time Bucky doesn’t understand it either), or his hair has once again turned a strange color. 

Sometimes it’s more serious, like when Steve floods the entire laundry room, or somehow lets all of the chickens out. Onto the roof. 

It’s for good things too. Steve had torn into the library, and he likes to share his favorite bits with Bucky — reading aloud the entertaining bits, the off color, the infuriating. 

Weeks earlier, Bucky had shown Steve how to plant, how to turn the soil and press the tiny seeds into damp earth. When the first, tiny green sprouts uncurled, Steve had summoned Bucky to show them off, carefully getting to the ground and touching each sprout with one, long finger. It had made Bucky smile, despite himself.

Most often it’s because...

Bucky sighs heavily as Steve offers him yet another shirt, shoulder seams completely destroyed by Steve’s big, absurd shoulders. When the latest victim has been consigned to the bulging ragbag, and another shirt located for sacrifice, Bucky ushers Steve out to the truck. 

For the first few weeks Steve had been on Earth, he’d been mostly unconscious, and thus had spent most of his time nude or swaddled in sheets. Arriving as he did, he’d hardly had time to pack a bag. Most recently, he’d dressed in a hodgepodge of ill fitting things — squeezing into Bucky’s shirts, hiking up Bruce’s pants nearly to his armpits. 

Steve _had_ offered, tentatively, to finish repairing his armor and wear that, but Bucky had taken one look at it, even after Steve’s best efforts, and vetoed that immediately. There is as an...odor, a distinct one, more than a few questionable stains, and anyways, Bucky refuses to eat breakfast with someone decked out in chainmail and creaking leather. 

So, when Bucky is presented with yet another shredded shirt, he does the only thing he reasonably can. 

They go shopping, the two of them. Bruce had firmly declined to go, completely focused on his latest attempt to fix Steve — a bubbling, writhing purple mixture that makes Bucky feel vaguely nauseated when he looks at it too long. 

Bucky had fully prepared for a long day. Steve is enthusiastic about most new experiences, especially Earth type experiences not available on Battleworld. Hell, Bucky would be too. He didn’t exactly enjoy his time with Hydra, and the war hadn’t been much of a laugh either. And before...it wasn’t like they’d all sat around being sad all the time, but the personal tragedy of his own life and the greater global tragedy of Thanos aside, things are good now, comfortable and soft in a way they weren’t in the past. 

And Bucky does like that part. He likes the clothes — the bright colors, the feel of soft fabric next to his skin. He’s not exactly fashion forward, doesn’t run in the right circles for that, what with his usual companions consisting of a man who shreds 90% of his wardrobe, some chickens, and now...

Bucky nearly swallows his tongue when Steve emerges from the dressing room. Bucky...hadn’t realized there would be modeling involved. He’d expected Steve to try on a few items, scoop up duplicates in assorted colors, and then they’d be done. Bucky himself doesn’t shop like that, likes to try on everything, rarely buys duplicates. But his Steve had been distinctly function driven, equally unbothered by poor fit, drab colors, or current fashions. The only thing he’d ever raised a fuss on had been his tactical suit. 

So, Bucky is a little surprised. 

To this point, their expedition had been uneventful. Bucky had taken Steve to Starbucks before, feeling the need to fortify himself with a very large, very sweet iced coffee, one he hadn’t had to make himself, or have made for him by a smug blond asshole who _had_ proven to be very good at making coffee. 

Steve had ordered a truly enormous mocha, a scone, and a cake pop, and consumed the lot in roughly sixty seconds. 

After, Bucky had tried to provide some rudimentary help on sizing, but Steve had been off, high on sugar and caffeine and excitement. So, Bucky had settled down in the convenient waiting area outside the dressing room, ready to spend some quality time with his color matching app and Steve’s cane, occasionally glancing up to make sure there are no fires or tears. 

Steve had touched _everything_ , fondled just about every sweater, unfolded entire stacks of pants, and eventually had proceeded to the dressing room completely loaded down, just a hint of blond hair sticking out over the top of his stack. 

Bucky had slid down a little further in his seat, rested his ankle on his knee, prepared to slide a red tile into place, then had nearly dropped his phone when Steve abruptly emerged, dressed only in...

Extremely _tight_ jeans, Christ, how had he gotten into those?

Steve is frowning, tugging at the crotch. 

“These are so tight! How can anyone move in such garments? Or fight?” He attempts a squat, and then a kick, and Bucky’s heart nearly stops. He clears his throat.

“Um..stretch fabric? Also, _stop that_ , if you rip those, we’ll have to buy them, and we don’t need more shredded clothing.”

Steve stops trying to fight the mirror, and instead plucks at the fabric hugging his waist. The jeans are faded, light colored denim, and do nothing to hide the muscles flexing in his thighs, the curve of his calves. He turns, checks out his own ass, humming thoughtfully. 

“Well, these are certainly ill-suited for combat, but I can see why you like such things.”

Bucky splutters “Wh...what?! What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Your own taste in pants! They are nearly as tight as these.” Steve performs a series of vigorous knee bends as though to illustrate. 

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it. He could go down this rabbithole, defend his taste in denim — yes he does like tight pants, but his are decidedly _not_ that tight. Steve’s current outfit is practically obscene...dark gold hair trailing down his chest, his abdomen, disappearing under the straining top button...Bucky shoves his hands firmly into the pocket of his hoodie, and deliberately chooses not to engage.

“Steve, if those aren’t comfortable, just get a bigger size.” 

“I didn’t say they were uncomfortable.” Steve does a final turn, and Bucky wonders if maybe Steve could try on a potato sack or something next when his mouth goes dry. 

“I’m getting them.”

Bucky’s composure is sorely tested at times — Steve continues to model, showing Bucky just about every article of clothing, asking him his opinion on one shade of blue versus the other, the relative merits of various fabric blends, and if underwear is truly necessary. Several hours later, Bucky’s phone battery is nearly dead, and he’s loaded down with bags while Steve’s back to using his cane, hair gone a little frizzy from donning and doffing so many shirts. 

Bucky had paid, with a feeling of deep satisfaction because he has money finally, _thank God._ That had been an ordeal all its own. After he’d come back, he’d been completely broke. There had been lawyers and lawsuits, a seemingly endless legal circus, but at the end of the day, between aliens and the end of the world and his own tenuous legal status, his own back pay had never materialized. 

And, even as he’d acknowledged it as something very, deeply modern to be angry about (hell, if he and Steve had lived out their natural lives, he’d never have been acknowledged legally as Steve’s widow), still he’d had no formal claim in the eyes of the world — no papers and no ring, no acknowledgement of his loss. Though, fuck, most of the world hadn’t even realized there _had_ been a loss. 

In the end, all personal hurt aside, the result had been that he’d needed a job, he’d gotten one, and it’s a damn good thing he did. 

Because, while Bucky doesn’t spend much day to day, and most of his and Bruce’s expenses are subsidized, Steve is also completely broke. Even if he’d had a credit card or something, Bucky seriously doubts that Macy’s would recognize the Bank of Doom or whatever.

So, it’d felt good to be able to pay for the mountain of clothing Steve had acquired, good to be able to provide for another person instead of always being the one needing the help. Bucky’d poked through the piles, making sure all the appropriate categories were represented. Steve had ultimately gravitated towards gym gear — leggings and shorts and tanks, sneakers and loose t-shirts. Bucky had rolled his eyes but hadn’t commented when Steve had added a fanny pack to the pile. 

Fortunately, Steve had also selected a variety of regular shirts and sweaters, more jeans, underwear, socks and a pair of boots, and after much searching for fit and style, several skirts because, _“Buck I’ve spent years wearing the tactical equivalent of a skirt. I don’t want to wear such restrictive garments as pants everyday.”_

It starts raining on the long drive back, pounding against the roof, splattering against the windshield. Steve’s quiet, head leaning against the window. He’d undone his braid at some point, scrubbed his fingers against his scalp with a sigh of relief. Now, hair falling around his face, shoulders curled inwards...he looks small. It reminds Bucky of when he’d carried Steve to the house, when he’d curled limp and cold against Bucky’s chest and Bucky had wondered if he’d live. Bucky clears his throat

“You want pizza?” Steve rouses a little, nods, and Bucky mentally plans to turn off the highway early.

Steve pushes himself upright. He gets caught in his hair, and Bucky watches out of the corner of his eye as he struggles to untangle himself from hair and seatbelt alike. Settled, Steve says, “Do you...do you think that today was premature?” 

Bucky’s not quite sure what Steve is saying. “You needed clothes, Steve. Nothing premature about that. And, I was starting to run out. It was probably overdue, but...” He shrugs. “I wanted to take you, let you pick, rather than guess. Or try to order online.” 

“I didn’t have any warning, before. One minute, I was on my planet — a version of Earth, I suppose — and the next...” Steve fiddles with the seat belt latch. _Click click click._

“The next, I was...in hell. Battleworld. And then, in an instant, I was here. Bucky, I do not dwell on the past, overmuch, about the things I did not choose, but...”

 _Click click click. Click click click._ Bucky reaches out blindly, can’t take his eyes off the road, but he’s able to fumble for Steve’s hand. His fingers are cold, clammy, but they twist into Bucky’s fingers anyways. Steve’s voice is soft. 

“I _worry._ I...don’t wish to leave this planet. There are people I miss, things I regret, but I _don’t want to go back._ ” He shudders. 

“The...I don’t know what to call it properly, the in-between. It’s...terrible. Indescribable..I could go at any minute, _any minute at all._ Right — ” and he bangs his head against the window, not hard, but with a soft thud that makes Bucky jump nonetheless. “This second! I could be gone, and to where?”

Bucky abruptly understands. He squeezes Steve’s hand. “I can’t promise you anything, but Steve, we’ve got...well, you saw it, you came through on it, we have..a fucking time machine. And space machine. It does all kinds of things. Could probably make you a smoothie and jerk you off, if you wanted it to.” 

Bucky doesn’t quite get a smile out of Steve. But he sees the corner of his mouth twitch, and he keeps talking, realizing that he has no clue how much Bruce has told Steve, how much he should tell Steve.

“There’s gotta be a way to, I don’t know, put a pin in you, or give you something that will bounce you back here.”

“Put a...pin? In me?” 

Bucky shrugs. “It’s a...well, it originated with grenades, you know, you’d pin them, keep from blowing your ass up, but then there were corkboards, and now there’s map apps, uh...” Steve has proven to be relatively savvy, but he picks the most inconvenient moments to be confused, latches on to the most random phrases. “Anyways, Steve, I...didn’t know you wanted to stay, I guess.” 

Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s fingers, and Bucky can feel Steve looking at him, sidelong through the curtain of his hair. 

“I didn’t say, before.” Bucky’s heart skips a beat, the rain beats against the windshield. Quiet settles over the cabin.

And Bucky lets Steve’s fingers slip out of his, gives them a quick pat before returning both hands to the wheel. 

“In your timeline...your Bucky,” Bucky says. Steve jerks his head to look at Bucky full on. 

They’d talked about their counterparts before, lightly, sharing small, inconsequential things. Bucky hadn’t been sure exactly what to ask. _What happened to the other me? Is he looking for you? Does he miss you, like I miss Steve? Did he suffer like I did?_

Bucky realizes now, that he hadn’t _wanted_ to ask, had been hesitant to share. 

Part of assuming Steve wanted to go back. It’d been a half imagined fancy, that Steve would get better, that time would snap him back up again, back to his own place, to his own Bucky, to his T. rex. He’d imagined that this would be a transient thing, an interlude for both of them, something a little bittersweet for him to remember. There had been other travelers before. None quite like Steve, but none had stayed before. 

And now, he’s not even sure where to start. No good way to ask, Hey, bud, how much shared trauma is there between me and your husband? How much is this gonna hurt you to know?

He mentally rewinds, then fast-forwards. 

“How..uh, did your Bucky get the serum? If he got it, I mean,” belatedly realizing that Steve’s husband may not have been a supersoldier at all. 

“Bucky? We got it together, at the same time. We did...everything together. When the war came, we enlisted. There was a special unit, very rigorous training. If you were successful, if you passed the tests, they would administer the serum.” Steve shrugs. “It seemed a small thing, at the time, a small thing to do for our country, to protect our families.” 

“Ah...we did it a bit differently, here on Earth. Steve, my Stevie, ugh, still pisses me off, sounds like he did what you did, a bit. Kind of. He signed up for an experiment too, but he barely survived boot camp. He wasn’t well, before, too weak. And me, I enlisted, but went to the front lines, Just a normal soldier. Stevie — some serum, some steroids, a shit ton of gamma radiation, and Bang! Captain America.” 

Steve visibly startles. “What!”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, well, a man in my timeline, Sam, he led our unit, went by Captain America. I was nothing special, just a man. A regular...dude.” 

Bucky chuckles at that. “Oh, haha. Well, Sam’s Cap here now, too.” He sidesteps any further mention of why or how Sam came to be Cap in this timeline. 

“Anyways, Steve went through...legal channels. Kind of. Me, I took a different route.”

“Hydra.” Hydra had been a constant, it seems, though in Steve’s world it had been a gigantic, shifting computer consciousness, working its tentacles into the very webs of the world, sending its serpentine, robotic avatars forth to destroy, to pillage.

“Yeah, I spent a lot of time with them. They gave me the serum, sure, gave me all sorts of things. But, one of the things they did...well, they’d put me on ice, all the time.”

Steve’s face looks confused, so Bucky rolls on. 

“They had a...tube, for cryostasis. Because of the serum, they could drop my body temp real low without killing me. They’d essentially...freeze me when they didn’t need me, defrost me when they did. I never knew when it was coming. They’d drug me up, so I wouldn’t fight, I’d just...go to sleep.”

He watches the wipers. 

_Swish swish swish. Swish swish._

He’d seen the footage — Hydra had filmed a shocking degree of his prolonged captivity. They truly had had no concerns they would ever be caught. The medical procedures, the torture — that had been hard to watch, but he’d lived it before, would do it again if he had to.

The cryo though...that had hurt. To see his limp body manhandled, stuffed roughly into the tube. And later, when he’d woken...his face soft with sleep and shrouded in ice, his feeble struggles when he’d woken, fearful and disoriented, only to see his face gradually harden, go blank and remote as Hydra had brought him back. 

They’d brought him back so many times. And the electroshock...

Bucky shakes off his memories. 

“I’d wake up, not know where I was, _when_ I was. Hell, half the time I’d forget who I was too. That was...oh, 70 ish years? And after...I was just getting settled again, no one else fucking around in my brain that I hadn’t invited in, no more losing time and then...Thanos. Did..did you guys have a Thanos?”

Steve purses his lips, shakes his head. “We have... _had_ a God Doom.”

Bucky shakes his own head. “Okay well, Thanos was an _asshole_ , no question about it. He got his hands on the Infinity stones, and you know, it always goes so well when assholes like that are given access to limitless power.”

“I...lost myself again, when he used it. Life kept on, Earth kept spinning, but I was just gone. No real sense of time, no real sense of...anything, really.” _Warm sand and the endless rush of the ocean._

“I came back, after five years.” He laughs, rough. “ _Everything_ was different, the world had just moved on, and I’d taken a time out, and I hadn’t even known it. I’d lived the same day over a thousand times.”

He tightens his hands on the steering wheel. When he glances down from the road, his knuckles are white. 

“I didn’t think it could happen to me again and...” His eyes are stinging, and it surprises him. He peeks at Steve, sideways. He’d tried to keep it light, as light as he could, but he can see that Steve’s twisting his fingers together. “Uh..none of that happened...in your world?” He catches himself, meant _to say to your Bucky,_ but it sounded insensitive, somehow. 

Steve looks very, very sad, as though he knows Bucky’s trying to be gentle with him, like he doesn’t quite approve, but he doesn’t call Bucky on it. 

Bucky’s grateful, for the grace. 

“No...Bucky was spared that, at least.” He doesn’t tell Bucky what his counterpart did go through, and Bucky’s grateful for that too. He feels strangely tender about this man he’s never met, the man who’d called Steve husband and cooked him bad food and held him close. 

He lets out a breath. “Good. _Good_ , I wouldn’t...uh, anyways...I _know_ , I know how it feels to be...” He searches for the right words. “Unmoored.”

Steve’s the one to reach out this time. He rests his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky savors the feeling, the feeling of being fixed to a single warm point, to someone. 

Steve’s voice is so gentle, “I’m sorry you were not. Spared, that is.” He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder, large hand curling all the way around his deltoid. “But, it’s...good, to not be alone in this.” 

Bucky’s exhausted his words, for now, so he just nods, wishes a little that he hadn’t tied his hair back, because everything must be naked on his face, for Steve to be so soft with him. 

They still stop for the pizza, and the process of arguing over pizza toppings and calculating how much they’ll need to feed all of them lightens the mood, and the loud growling of Steve’s belly at regular intervals does the rest. 

At home, Steve disappears to his room with his loot — bags looped over his arms, pizza box precariously balanced, and Bucky imagines him, stuffing pizza in his face while carefully hanging his new clothing. 

When Bucky collapses at the table, Bruce is there, bringing him a beer, and they eat pizza quietly together and talk of small things — how many eggs the chickens have been laying ( _so many_ ), how Bruce’s experiments went that day ( _poorly_ ), and _wow, this pizza with butter chicken on it is fucking delicious._

After, when Bruce is chewing idly on a crust, and Bucky’s on his third beer, he tells Bruce. That Steve’s terrified of being pulled back to Battleworld, or to somewhere else. He’s probably overstepping, but he can see Bruce is already running over the problem, calculating potential solutions. Bruce doesn’t promise anything, but Bucky feels more at ease, knowing he’s tagged in a bigger brain than his own. 

He falls asleep surprisingly quickly, worn out from the events of the day. And when he dreams...

Well, Bucky had fully expected to have nightmares after his talk with Steve. He still has an abundance of sleep issues, his brain coming up with a seemingly endless array of nightmarish things to fixate on and offer up in a surreal dreamscape. 

Instead...his dreams are something amorphous, twisting; a warm body sliding against his own, calloused fingertips ghosting over his cheeks, his lips...

He wakes up hard, aching , hips moving restlessly against his sheets

It’s still dark, blinds drawn, house quiet. If he keeps his eyes shut tight, if he doesn’t think too hard about what he’s doing...

He sighs when he wraps his hand around his dick, a near-soundless exhale. It doesn’t take long, the strands of arousal still wrapped around him, the sensation of another body moving against him, in him... soft, bright hair wrapped tight in his fist and snug, snug jeans, unbuttoned and pushed low over narrow hips and, _fuck,_ it’s been so long and then he’s coming, body convulsing, mouth open in a silent cry. 

Clean up is a hurried, desultory affair, and post-orgasm, he feels a little ashamed. Embarrassed, even. His brain had picked over the emotional intensity of yesterday, the mutual sharing of fears and collective trauma, pushed it all aside and said... _Didn’t Steve look great in those pants?_

Bucky has to laugh at himself, so eager to be _disappointed_ that he hadn’t spent the night tossing and turning while his brain trod well-worn, unhappy pathways. Attraction...it’s normal, healthy even, and not entirely unexpected, weirdness aside. When he slides back into sleep — _it’s still fucking early_ — it’s with a bit of a grin on his face, body languid. 

Later that morning, when Bucky drags himself out of bed, he finds he had gravely miscalculated the effects of yesterday’s adventure badly. He’d been minding his own business, shuffling down the hallway, hair in his face, hoping to maybe find some coffee he didn’t have to make when he nearly shuffles right into Steve.

Steve, who is bustling around the kitchen like some kind of...

Bucky squints, unable to fully reconcile his sleep addled eyes. Steve notices him standing in the doorway, waves him over to the table, brandishing a ladle. Bucky has a sudden impression of his mother, the venerable Mrs. Barnes, and how she’d chase him to his room with a spoon when he’d acted out. 

“Buc.. _hic_...ky, good _hic_ morning!” Steve’s tone is cheerful, and the image of Mrs. Barnes dissipates like a soap bubble. Before he quite knows what he is doing, Bucky finds himself sitting at the table while Steve continues to babble, each word punctuated by loud hiccups. 

When Bucky glances at Bruce, Bruce ostentatiously avoids eye contact, staring into his coffee cup like it holds the secrets of the universe. So, Bucky, says, loudly, to the room at large, “Oh, good, the hiccups. That’s something we wanted back again.”

Besides the time all of Steve’s fingernails had fallen off, the prolonged hiccups are among Bucky’s least favorite side-effects from Steve and Bruce’s experiments. 

Steve ignores him, and Bruce whispers an apology to his coffee, an apology that Bucky feels is not entirely sincere and that he’d like to address further, but his full attention is drawn back to the hiccuping, gym-bro-turned-domestic, who is approaching with a simply enormous mug of steaming coffee. And he’s smiling at Bucky, wide and warm and, Christ, if Bucky didn’t know better, he’d think he was in love, a little. 

Steve had apparently gotten into his new clothes. His blue gym shorts are...short, long stretches of thigh on display, and he’s still barefoot, knobbly toes gripping the hardwood floors as he turns, pivots, moving easily between stove and counter. His tank top, an eye-searing neon pattern, is loose, cut low at the chest and arms, and his long hair is braided back, covered in a backwards baseball cap, and Bucky is abruptly furious, because _who showed him that?_

The worst part...is the apron. It’s Bruce’s, pale purple and ruffled, gifted by some Avenger in an effort at a joke that was lost, as Bruce wears it on the regular. 

It is terrible on Steve, wrapping tightly around his narrow waist and straining across his broad chest, and Bucky wants to be irritated by how appealing it is, wants to make a snarky comment about the hiccups, but his body is possessed. and instead he smiles back at Steve, silently accepting the coffee, the plate loaded high with eggs and fruit, and _fuck,_ pancakes, giant and fluffy and smelling of vanilla. 

After breakfast, the hiccups have largely dissipated, Bruce breathing a sigh of relief. Bucky, full and still mildly irritated at his hindbrain, waddles out to sit on the porch.

Where he abruptly discovers that he had not yet fully reckoned with the magnitude of his miscalculation. 

Bucky is forced to finish his coffee while watching Steve (apron gone, sneakers on)...exercising, still emitting occasional hiccups. It is too much — the sun is not even fully up! — and worse, he wants to help Steve, watching him struggle to complete pushups, to jog longer than a minute, gasping while his skin goes slick with sweat...

Bucky goes to take a shower. A long one.

Steve continues to be more active, and it continues to fray Bucky’s nerves. He joins Bruce and Bucky for yoga and starts jogging, running longer and longer distances. He does simple exercises at first — push ups, pulling around the heavy equipment, lifting anything he can find. At first, Bucky tries to avoid it. He has a hundred and one things he can do instead; he has no desire to watch Steve, or worse , join him. Bucky likes his exercise routine — yoga in the mornings, long walks around the property while he ‘patrols’, maybe stretching in the sunshine, sometimes a little boxing. He has no desire to get sucked into...whatever Steve is working towards. He sincerely hopes Steve is not planning to join the Avengers, but he wants Steve to do what he likes.

_Steve likes him...maybe...Steve will do him._

Lechery aside, Bucky can’t help but worry. For all of Steve’s bravado, all his cheerful resilience, Bucky is haunted — the memories of him in the hospital bed, so pale and still, how he’d struggled just to sit up. He remembers finding Steve clinging to the wall or sitting on the floor, unable to muster the strength to go just a bit farther. 

And, he remembers back before the serum, how Steve would gasp for air, how Bucky would count his rattling breaths, always waiting for the next one, heart racing with fear as the seconds stretched...

Bucky just can’t turn off the worry in his brain, can’t stop imagining Steve passed out somewhere in the woods or too weak to go home, or what if aliens attack again...

“Arggghhhh!!!” Bucky pulls at his own hair, frustrated with himself. And... 

He goes outside to find Steve, unable to stand his own thoughts.

So, he trains with Steve, in the mornings mostly, jogging listlessly besides him — he’s always hated running — counting push ups, ‘supervising’ as Steve starts doing basic drills. At first, Steve is laughably, pitiably slow. Punches telegraphed a mile away, kicks even worse, footwork slow, clumsy. Bucky doesn’t spar with him, per se, but he’s not above tripping Steve up, messing with him a little. 

Bucky loves pretending to be occupied, checking out some flaking paint on the house, or maybe meditating, sitting with his eyes closed while Steve gets closer and closer and then...

Bucky explodes upward, catches Steve’s foot, twists _hard,_ and Steve pops into the air, a wordless shout exploding from his lungs. Bucky’s gone before Steve even hits the ground, scampering up onto the roof like the coward he is, trying not to laugh at Steve’s perplexed expression as he sits on his ass in the dirt. 

“Steve, you must be constantly vigilant.” Bucky says with a prim attitude, well out of reach. “Anyone could come along, put you on your ass.”

Steve mutters darkly as he gets to his feet. Bucky can catch the end of it, a formal, Steve-esque version of “I’ll show your mom vigilance.” And oh, the look he shoots Bucky, sidelong, as he goes back to punching and kicking. It’s dark, and heated, and it makes Bucky want to run, run until he can get away from the tight feeling of his own skin, because that kind of look...

Well, it’s the kind of look where Steve might hold him down, might do...other things, but it’s also the kind of look where he might dump Bucky in the lake, and Bucky’s not sure he’s ready for either outcome. So, he himself practices extra vigilance when he finally deigns to descend, and he keeps well out of reach for the rest of the day. 

But, it’s a great prank, very fun, and Bucky tells himself it’s a training exercise, can’t stop from doing it again and again, laughing like a maniac each time, until Steve gets too fast and Bucky barely gets away. 

And it’s feeling more and more like fire, to keep playing with Steve like that.

And Bucky likes the giddy feeling a little too much, the anticipation of potentially thrusting his hand into those flames, the thrill of the fire consuming him. 

So, he stops, goes back to watching from a distance. Watches as Steve gets stronger and stronger, muscle and stamina returning. Keeps his hands to himself when Steve grumbles, the lack of healing factor meaning he feels it in a way he hasn’t in years, muscle soreness lingering, bruises turning a brilliant rainbow of colors before fading slowly. Bucky wants to stroke his hands over those sore muscles and sooth them, smooth arnica over those bruises...

But that feels fraught too, dangerous in a different way, to see Steve vulnerable and soft. And Steve progresses on his own without...hands-on...help from Bucky, faster than Bucky could have thought possible, and before he knows it, he’s leading Steve into the little armory at the back of the cabin. 

The armory isn’t really an armory — it’s more of an extremely secure walk-in closet, shelves lined with weapons instead of shoes, various armored accoutrements hanging and shoved into corners. It’s cluttered, not particularly well organized, and not used too often. 

Bucky himself hasn’t been completely successful in breaking his habit of stashing weapons all over, and he rarely has occasion to come here, mostly when the kids come up for training.

Still, he fiddles with a case of knives — _nice, solid, well balanced_ — ponders pocketing a couple for his own stash, humming absently while Steve goes through everything. 

He’s handsy, as always, and Buck watches out of the corner of the eye as Steve brushes by the gun racks, fondling a particularly large pistol before replacing it, casually twirling a knife as he moves past the smaller edged weapons, the ranged weapons. He seems to be enjoying himself, even more so when he gets to the rack of more medieval weapons — the longer knives, the swords, the things that could get you committed to a Dungeons & Dragons campaign. 

Bucky senses more than feels Steve go still when he reaches the corner of the room, the carefully wrapped bundles Bucky had stashed there weeks ago. He can hear Steve’s sharply indrawn breath and tries to keep his focus on the knife in his hand. _Flip. Flip. Flip._

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is thick, choked up, and Bucky hmms an answer, flips the knife again. _Could be better balanced. Needs sharpening._

“This...this is my shield. And...my...axe? Did...did you...?” Steve trails off, and Bucky, turns finally, _dread anticipation fear_ churning in his gut, and Steve’s standing there, right there, and Bucky’s heart jumps because he looks...

As he’s meant to. 

Sure, he’s wearing gym shorts and a sweat-stained red tank top, closed in by the narrow walls. His sneakers are already beat to hell, and his hair is a disaster, long wisps escaping his braid, skin a little pink and starting to freckle from the long morning in the sun. But, the shield is secure, strapped to his arm, muted reds and blues, star gleaming, and the axe...the double-headed blade shining, haft clenched easily in one big fist, and it’s suddenly too easy to imagine Steve in a melee, in a gladiator ring, fighting strange creatures, riding a fucking dinosaur. 

Steve’s been a lot of things, since he came into Bucky’s life. A cranky, difficult patient, and a surprisingly good roommate — kind, considerate, helpful. He’s been...fun, playful, and he’s been terribly, terribly sad, mourning his losses quietly along with Bucky and Bruce. 

Now, he looks dangerous, alert and hard in a way that Bucky hasn’t seen before. Bucky is newly aware of Steve’s body; the new muscle he’s added, the scars that criss cross his arms and shoulders, the set of his mouth, firm and unrelenting. 

Fuck, it’s a good look on him. 

He clears his throat, his treacherous throat . “You wanna test those out? Make sure they got fixed up right?”

Bucky had found the axe, months ago. He had nearly tripped over it, actually. It’d been thrown well clear of the platform, overlooked until he had happened to be looking at the ground, at just the right angle, to see the dull gleam of metal and dig it free.

It had reminded Bucky of Steve’s shield, come through with him and pushed aside in the rush to get him inside. It’d taken some searching, through the bushes, but he’d found the dull, metal disc and hauled both home. The axe had been broken, head shorn from haft, and the shield had been badly dented.

Bucky had prevaricated at the time. He himself wouldn’t love to have someone else take charge of his weapons, but at that time he’d had no earthly idea if Steve would even wake up, and Thor had been on Earth at the time. He’d figured if anyone would have advice on repairing an axe, it’d be that guy.

So he’d sent it out to HQ, Bruce hauling it along dutifully on one of his many trips back and forth, and not only had Thor known how to repair an axe, he’d had a personal hand in the repairs of both the axe and shield. Bruce had been amused when he’d described the de-facto forge Thor had engineered, how he’d cheerfully bullied people into making repairs on their own weapons. Eventually, Steve’s had come back.

Clean, well-wrapped, and Bucky hadn’t been able to resist taking a look before stashing them in the armory. 

The shield...it was made of a different material than the vibranium one, nearly triple the weight. It’d come back hammered smooth, metal gleaming dully, and Bucky had whistled when he’d hefted it. It was heavy, solid, design clearly intended to block rather than fly through the air. Though...Bucky ran a finger along the edge, sucked at his bloody fingertip. Flung at the right angle, it’d take someone’s head clean off. 

The axe was made of a similar metal, double-headed, razor sharp, haft wrapped in snooth, soft leather, and when Bucky touched it...it felt anticipatory under his touch, and he’d wondered what Thor had done to it.

It hadn’t seemed likely, then, that Steve would need them again, but...Bucky had wanted them to be ready for him, just in case. Just in case he needed them. Still he’d been unwontedly nervous, afraid he’d overstepped, but now...

Steve’s face lights up, and Bucky can feel his fingers tremble with relief, that he hadn’t overstepped, hadn’t fucked up, and even more, to see that hard face be replaced with the open, sunny face he’s come to...

Well, he’s gotten used to it, that’s all. 

Bucky spends the rest of the afternoon watching Steve fuck around with his axe. 

It’s nothing like he’d expected. Steve moves with an efficient, brutal grace, shifting easily from using the axe with one hand or two, starting with more straightforward looking movements, axe swinging across his body, whirling around his head, whipping up unexpectedly. Later, the shield is incorporated effortlessly, and Steve slides from offense to defense within a breath, sliding back just as easily. 

Part of Bucky wants to actually see him fight.

A more foolish part of Bucky wants to fight him. 

Bucky is saved from his own brain though when Steve finishes up, replacing the axe on his back with a flourish, followed quickly by the shield, and then Bucky finds himself clenched tightly in a hug, Steve whispering “thank you, thank you _thank you_ ” in his ear. 

He’s got time for an awkward pat to Steve’s shoulder, a brief inhale of sweat, and warm skin against his before he’s abruptly released and Steve disappears into the house, muttering something about showers and needing a second dose of something. Bucky’s ears feel hot, and his chest feels tight.

Bucky manages to hold out. He finds errands to be doing when Steve is training (even he can admit that Steve is no longer in danger of imminently expiring, or, hell, dropping his axe on his toe — he really doesn’t...need Bucky anymore). Bucky’s garden beds are weeded within an inch of their life, and he forces Bruce into a deep cleaning of the lab, updates all of their security protocols...He can always find more to do.

He scrubs out and organizes the entire amory, and after an internal struggle, makes an inventory too. Each gun is cleaned, ammo is counted and purchased if needed, and each knife sharpened. On a whim, he drags one of the swords out to the yard, intending to play around with it a little, see how different it is. 

He’s sure, at some point, Hydra, the Russians, someone, probably put a sword in his hands for sheer dramatic effect, if for no other reason. _Look, our brainwashed assassin, he is so terrifying with his empty brain and big sword, he will take your life and eat your children for breakfast._

But, the sword is clumsy in his hands, and if he has ever held one, he’s got no active memory of it, and no subconscious muscle memory kicking in. His fumbling draws Steve’s attention, who watches with a slight frown on his face until Bucky stops, feeling self conscious, hilt hanging loosely in his grip. 

“Here, Buck, let me see?” And Bucky lets Steve pluck the sword from his hand, watches as Steve twirls the blade competently. When Steve offers it back to him, his fingers clutch convulsively around the hilt, and Steve adjusts his grip, pushes at his shoulders, his feet. When Steve is satisfied, he shows Bucky a simple strike, the sword arcing across his body.

Bucky obediently attempts to recreate Steve’s easy, competent movements. He feels clumsy, his shoulders and chest burning, but it’s interesting, new, and throughout it all, Steve’s hands are gentle on him, adjusting his posture, changing the angle of the sword just so, and Bucky’s a fucking professional but it’s...distracting nonetheless. 

Bucky finally pulls off a particularly good strike, and then a second one, his muscles and brain coming together, and he shouts with triumph. Steve laughs at him, eyes warm and so soft, and Bucky feels...proud and _good_ and like he wants to to learn more, anything for that outlook of approval in Steve’s eyes, but then...Steve’s eyes are going sad, the light going out, lashes dipping to hide them, and Bucky’s not sure what to say, so he reaches out and touches Steve’s wrist in gentle inquiry. 

And Steve’s eyes flick up, meet Bucky’s, dart away. “It was...Bucky’s weapon of choice, once our guns were not an option. He was like Death Herself with it. Until...” Steve trails off, gaze distant, and Bucky’s skin feels too tight, prickling heat spreading through him, and _he is such an asshole_ , of all the things to pick up...

“Aw, shit, Steve, I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and now he closes his hand around Steve’s, laces their fingers together.. Steve looks down at their hands, gaze distant, like he doesn't know quite where he is, and then he swallows hard, once. 

“Steve?” Buck squeezes Steve’s fingers, gently. Slowly, Steve’s eyes refocus, flicking from their interlaced fingers up to Bucky’s face, down to the sword, abandoned. 

“No...No.” Steve swallows again. “No, you couldn’t have known. I never told you. And…” Steve closes his eyes. His fingers trail over Bucky’s palm, up his wrist. “I miss him, so much, and it hurts to see you, to see you with a sword in your hand, but it’s good too. I...”

Bucky closes his own eyes. The emotion on Steve’s face is hard, too hard to look at. He lets the sword fall, a dull thunk in the dirt, pulls Steve to him, and once again, he marvels that such a big man, one who was never small, not small like Stevie had been...can fold himself into Bucky so completely.

Steve cries, whole body shaking, and Bucky murmurs gentle, soothing nonsense, and at the end, Steve sniffles when he pulls away “I’ll...uh, I can keep teaching you? If you would like.” 

“Aw, Steve, that’s...” Bucky fumbles in his pocket for his handkerchief, and reaches up to mop at Steve’s cheek, his nose. He looks like hell, eyes swollen, face mottled red, shiny with tears and snot. Absentmindedly, Bucky swaddles Steve’s nose. “Blow, come on.” 

Bemused, Steve obeys, and at the loud _honk_ that results, Bucky can feel his own cheeks heating as he realizes...just what he did. “Uh..um..” Awkward, he stuffs the snotty tissues back in his pocket. “Sword, okay. Um, you know, no rush on that, Steve, no rush at all, I uh, if it’s upsetting I...”

The corners of Steve’s mouth are twitching, and he throws back his head, laughing wetly, and that, that is too much, and Bucky gathers up the sword and his dignity and flees, haunted by laughter and blue eyes. 

He goes back, though. He goes back, again and again, irresistibly drawn to the circle of dirt by the house, the racks full of whatever weapons have been hauled out, the soft cluck of chickens and the tiny sprouts coming up in one of his gardens and...Steve. 

The...spell...or whatever had been there, ensuring Steve respected Bucky’s space, had kept Steve from pushing, seems to have been torn down, eradicated by the spirit of Mrs. Barnes possessing Bucky and Steve’s general sogginess. And a sword, haunted by a long-dead man. 

Steve is no longer content to have Bucky be a passive observer in his training. Bucky is pretty sure Steve is trying to make it look as appealing as possible, demonstrating increasingly complex maneuvers with the axe, incorporating the shield, and later, other weapons. He talks, longingly, of how he will better hone his skills with a worthy opponent. He cleans his weapons, slowly, and with great care, and Bucky...if Bucky didn’t know better, he’d say Steve watches him while he does it, eyes laughing and heated while he rubs the haft of the axe with an oiled cloth. 

And he appeals to Bucky’s competitive nature, all while seeming to find the smallest shirts, the most minimal shorts to do it in. 

“Come on, Bucky, it will be...fun. Don’t you want to test your blades against mine, see which of us will prevail?” He waggles his eyebrows at Bucky, who has to fight not to laugh.

“No! You...” And he pokes Steve firmly in the chest “Don’t heal right. And I...don’t need to fucking spar anymore.”

“I will be gentle with you, I promise.” Bucky rolls his eyes “It isn’t you that needs to be gentle, buddy .” 

Steve looks terrible. 

His hair has gone even lighter, gold and bright from the sun, and he has awful little freckles now, all over his cheeks and his forehead, his nose, sprinkled across his shoulders and arms. Bucky swears he’s growing broader by the day, and the blue of his tank top...makes his eyes seem even brighter, and Bucky is appalled by all of it, thinks that getting too close to all of that golden, glowing everything would be just...a terrible idea.

Bucky opens his mouth to say so, and Bruce, who wandered out to get some sun, takes the moment to heckle Bucky. “Come on Bucky!”

Steve _is_ terrible, he has ruined Bruce, Bruce who used to be quiet and dependable and _kind_ , who is now lounging out in the grass, hair tousled and drinking coffee at noon, the barbarian. 

Bucky glares at Bruce. Steve has not been a good influence on him. “I thought we were friends!”

“Oh! We are.” Bruce begins to mess with some of the plants, and Bucky narrows his eyes. _If Bruce starts pulling up his arugula, he will not be responsible for the carnage that will follow._ “But you could stab him, a little, we’re trying something new.”

Now Steve looks offended. “If anyone will be stabbed, it will be Bucky, here.” 

Bucky flings his hands in the air. It does nothing, and he knows he looks dramatic, ridiculous. _“ Nobody will be stabbing anybody”_

“You!” He points at Steve. “We will go a round. _One_. There will be no stabbing.” Steve nods meekly and starts warming up his wrist, axe moving in a smooth, fluid figure eight.

There’s a little bit of stabbing. 

Just a bit.  
Bucky changes his clothes first, ignoring Steve and Bruce’s boos. Steve might think the smallest tank tops the 21st century has to offer are appropriate training attire, but Bucky has standards.  
And, he doesn't want blood on his clothes. Attired appropriately in tac pants and a compression shirt, knives slipped into clothing, into his hands, he finds he’s excited, nerves buzzing. He’s been longing, deep inside, to match himself against Steve, but there’s a chill too, quiet and cold.  
Because Bucky is himself. He’s James “Bucky” Barnes, a son and a brother. He’s loved, and been loved, been lost and been found, again and again.

But...he’s the Winter Soldier too, deep in his bones, and that’s alright; The Soldier is a part of him, as much as anything. 

That had been something he and Shuri hadn’t advertised. She’d burned the trigger words right out of him, and she'd pored over every inch of Bucky’s brain and in the end...

“You and the Soldier...Bucky, you’re linked.” She’d gestured at the various holo screens surrounding them. Bucky’s brain, here. His skeleton, there. More screens for his arm and the various prototypes, his whole nervous system picked out and rendered in delicate threads, another showing his endocrine system, the gentle cascade of various hormones running on a continuous loop. 

Shuri’s keyboard hovers, semi-transparent, following her like an eager puppy. It sways slightly as she types rapid fire, _click click click,_ keys lighting up briefly in a flash of purple before vanishing again. It’s coordinated with her outfit — a tight fitting, high necked dark purple top, wrapping up her arms, leaving her midriff bare. Her pants are a pale, shimmering silver, and they catch the light as she turns. Shuri begins clicking through various screens. 

Bucky’s brain rotates, multiples, and with Shuri’s words, different images light up, turn slowly, zoom in and out. 

Bucky watches as different colors appear, listens as Shuri takes him on a tour of his own brain — dark, colorless patches, _the trigger words_ , or the remains of them, gentle swirls of blues, greens, purples, _Bucky, his memories, his personality,_ and then reds, deep crimson and scarlet, a bare twist of pale pink. 

“That, there...” Shuri points “That is what you would think of as The Soldier, those memories, skills, whatever.” The pink and red fades, leaving the blue. 

“That, that is....Bucky, for better or worse...and, together.” She clicks again. Bucky’s brain lights up, a brilliant, rainbow swirl, the warm and cool tones twining together. “You can see, where I pulled out the trigger words, you are already remodeling through there. Your neuroplasticity is excellent.” _Small gold sparks in the darkness, flickering, growing larger..._

“Bucky...” Shuri pushes the keyboard away, and it vanishes with a flick of purple, a hollow pop . 

“I can go through, take out more, but you can see how much would need to go, how much it’s all twisted up in who you are. Your brain would recover, physically...but...” She riffles through the images again — blue to red, red to blue.

“I know the memories hurt you, but you are not some wild, out of control thing. I’ve mapped you, your brain, as extensively as possible, and...here, this is when you are fighting, when you are strategizing...when you are,” she hesitates, “happy.” She clicks through — _red shot with blue, the two swirling, blue with thin strands of red, pink._

“You are pretty well compartmentalized Bucky, but I think to take more from you, it would be to change you, irreparably.” 

“But...” Bucky remembers how his hands had trembled. He’d...wanted, it gone, all of it, had wanted to be Bucky, just Bucky completely, and now...

“Bucky.” Shuri’s voice is gentle, unusual for her. “Bucky, you are no danger. Not to yourself, not to anyone else, unless you choose to be. The Winter Soldier is not just a part of you, he is you, a separate part of you, but he’s all wrapped up within you. It’s not for me, to say what you do with that, but as your...hm, friend? I would say it is time to see if you can accept him.”

He’d listened to Shuri, in the end. She’d been right. 

The Soldier is a part of him, a part that lives deep in his bones, his brain, rising when needed, sliding back into sleep when he’s not. But...they’d agreed, mutually, not to advertise the fact. 

Now, with battle imminent, he can feel him, the Soldier, knocking at the door, a cold breeze in his chest, tempered only by warm excitement — _finally finally finally_ thrilling along his nerves.

Bucky flips a final knife in his hand, slips it out of sight into a clever sheath at the back of his neck. He’s grinning by the time he leaves his room. 

It’s a good fight. 

The axe is different, difficult, _interesting._

Bucky’s not fought many people or creatures that use them, and even less that use them with the skill Steve has. As they square off, he already begins calculating, planning. Steve’s been layering on muscle, but despite his increasing bulk, he’s preternaturally quick, uses the axe and shield in tandem as easily as breathing. 

But Bucky’s quick too, quicker and smaller than Steve, and used to fighting with and against someone with a shield. 

It’d been a running joke of sorts, when he’d fought with the Avengers. Stealing the shield from Sam, sending it hurtling back. Sam spinning it back to Bucky, only to reclaim it a minute later. And of course, he’d fought with his own Steve for years.

They circle each other for the first moments, Bucky’s knife loose in his fist, Steve wary behind the shield. 

The first clash is rapid, brutal, Bucky sliding in under the axe, getting caught with the haft hard in the jaw before ah ! he slices with his knife, quick along leather straps, a twist of his arm, and then…

He skips away, out of axe range, turns back to face Steve, shield secure on his arm. Bucky feels a slow, hungry grin spread across his face, at the sight of Steve’s face. 

Steve...looks a little poleaxed, mouth soft and open. Bucky...wants to see that more. He wants to push his thumb into Steve’s mouth, stroke along his lower lip. He wants to twist his hand into his hair and take the rest of his weapons, and...Bucky licks his lips. His blood is beating hot in his veins, nerves singing, adrenaline surging, and his voice is thicker than it should be, a little shaky. 

“Aw, Stevie, bad luck, lost your shield already.” The nickname slips out, and Bucky mentally winces. He doesn’t have time to say anything though

Steve’s mouth snaps shut, and he changes at Bucky, a wordless cry of rage erupting from him, axe a blur in his hands. 

Bucky takes the briefest second to appreciate his barbaric splendor — the flying hair, the sheer volume , goodness, the flexing muscles of his chest and arms...and then Steve hurls the shield, hard, and runs to meet him. 

It’s good, fun. Bucky doesn't use his knives much. He doesn’t want to shatter them against the axe or the shield, and he’s even less enthusiastic about making Steve bleed. He’s got plenty of other ways to inflict damage, and better yet, he’s had plenty of time to watch Steve.

Steve does catch him, a few times, the shield slicing a long, razor sharp cut along his arm. Bucky’s a hair too slow in dodging the axe a few times, collects shallow cuts one after another. Mostly though, Bucky deflects, twisting away from the axe, raining light punches along Steve’s ribs, snapping kicks to his gut and just shy of his head, using leverage and speed to pop Steve’s legs out from under him. 

The shield...Bucky steals it a half a dozen more times, blocks one axe blow, then another, slams it hard against Steve’s elbow, aiming for that big nerve, close to the skin...and yes he can see Steve’s fingers go loose, just a hair, but it’s enough. Bucky follows up with a quick, sharp blow with the hilt of his dagger, one to Steve’s hand, another to his temple, and Steve shakes his head and Bucky moves as fast as he can, hand wrapping around the axe heft and twisting, hard, other elbow flying into Steve’s gut...

Bucky flings the axe, hard, hears a satisfying, resounding thunk as it sinks into the side of the house. The shield follows — he hears Bruce swear — and then Steve’s charging him, and oh, _it's on now._ They dance across the hard packed dirt. Steve’s face is going pink, sweat pouring down his face, and Bucky’s probably pushing him a bit too much, probably time to wrap this up, but oh, it’s good, it’s _so good,_ the burn of muscle and the give of flesh under his fists, the smell of sweat and the feeling of running, perfectly balanced on a narrow razor’s edge. 

Bucky slips, a little, when Steve gets his metal arm locked up, winces as a light pinprick of his knife slips a bit deeper into Steve’s arm, and _fuck,_ Steve’s gasping for breath, and it’s time, past time. Bucky slips out of Steve’s grasp and leaps, legs wrapping tightly around Steve’s neck, twisting hard and diving for the ground, bringing them down together, slamming Steve hard into the dirt, chest first. 

Another second, and Bucky’s got Steve wrapped up, neat and tidy. He groans as he wraps his fingers into Steve’s hair, pulls his head back. Steve’s breath comes a little faster, harsh, tendons in his neck straining, and Bucky luxuriates in the feeling of Steve against him, the whole length of his sweat-slick back pressed tight against his chest. And then Bucky’s last knife is in his right hand, and he traces it, delicately along Steve’s throat, up under his chin and, _fuck,_ that’s his own breath, ragged, and he’s panting right into Steve’s ear, the scent of blood and sweat and sunshine is sharp in his nose.

“Buck...Bucky... _fuck_...” Steve’s breathless, arching under him, and Bucky suddenly comes back to himself, realizes he’s hard, aching, and roughly two seconds away from humping Steve right in front of his roommate. 

The knife falls from nerveless fingers, into the dirt, and Bucky staggers to his feet. It’s bright, too bright the blood rushing in his ears, and Steve’s turning over, wincing. Bruce, frozen, eyes wide, coffee cup forgotten at his lips. _A knife at his own throat, sharp stinging pain and lightning in the sky and ringing in his ears._

Bucky runs. 

He ends up on the dock. He’d considered running farther, but he hates running, no matter what kind of existential crisis he’s having. 

He collapses at first, pants while the sweat dries on him, his heart rate slowly, slowly returning to normal, and then he can sit up. He pats absently at his pockets. _Christ,_ of course he doesn't have cigarettes, so he settles instead for toeing off his sneakers, then his socks. The wood of the dock feels good under his bare feet, warm and solid, and he wiggles his toes before falling back again, breath escaping in a soft _oof._

The sky is blue, endless, a few wisps of cloud drifting, sun reflecting off the water in a dazzle of light. He can hear the quacking of ducks in the distance and occasional splashes of fish. 

In the calm, the quiet, he can shut his eyes, let his mind drift, sift through emotions. In the moment, he’d been turned on, high on adrenaline, the feeling of Steve underneath him...

And it hadn’t been scary, or overwhelming. It had felt good, all of it, and inevitable. Like he and Steve have been dancing around each other, at each other, and then...had suddenly clicked into lockstep, moving together towards...something good, something big, and that part had been overwhelming, and...that...that’s when he’d run.

There’d been no true danger of him hurting Steve, cutting him, and as he replays the last seconds, Steve’s body arched and straining, whimpering Bucky’s name...and the way he’d shivered, hips tensing when Bucky had leaned over him, breath hot against his ear, his throat...Bucky startles upright, eyes flying open at the touch of a foot against his. 

Steve blocks out the sun, a dark silhouette against the bright sky. 

“Bucky?” Steve’s face is shadowed, but he sounds hesitant. 

“Hey, Steve.”

Steve nudges Bucky’s foot again. “May I join you?”

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky levers himself up, folding his legs while Steve pops off his own shoes. 

They make a little pile, Bucky’s purple-striped sneakers and Steve’s, bright blue and battered. 

Bucky looks Steve over. He’d changed. Faded, pale jeans hugging his legs, feet now bare, gripping the wooden boards. His t-shirt...Bucky internally rolls his eyes. That shirt is definitely _not_ one of Steve’s, black and straining over his shoulders, emblazoned with “More Metal than You” in shiny, silver letters. 

It’d been a gift.

Bucky nudges his own foot against Steve’s, glances meaningfully at the shirt. 

Steve’s cheeks go a bit pink. “I...uh...”

“You need help with the washing machine again? You just need a little splash of...”

Steve plops down abruptly, strings cut. He mumbles into his knees, _“Itsmellsgood.”_

Bucky sits upright. “Yeah?” He can feel his lips curl, a bit. 

Steve nods, begins to fiddle with his pants, rolling up one leg and then the other, then easing a foot into the lake with a sigh. Bucky scoots a bit closer while Steve swishes his feet in the water. The silence is easy, comfortable.

Steve had let his hair loose, probably when he’d changed, and it spills over his shoulders and down his back. It’s a little absurd, how pretty it is. Bucky tamps down the little voice inside him that compares, automatically, how his other Steve’s hair had darkened as he’d aged, settling into a rich dark brown, hints of red in the sun.

 _They’re really not much alike, at all,_ Bucky muses. Steve’s hair is gold-bright in the sun, strands falling in his face, and Bucky reaches out slowly, giving Steve time to move away. 

But Steve doesn't move, and Bucky touches one of the errant strands, coiling it around a finger. 

It’s soft, and he lets it run through his fingers, once, before carefully smoothing it back. He’s...not ready to let go, lets his fingers drift over Steve’s ear, brush against his cheek, and when Steve turns to him, his eyes are wide, and he looks soft, soft and young despite the rough stubble under Bucky’s fingertips.

The freckles are darker after a few hours out in the sun, scattered across cheeks and forehead, and the scars on Steve’s face are more prominent than usual — pink and shiny. Buck wonders, idly, if they’re fading at all. 

They must have been deep, not to have gone away even before Steve came here and lost his healing factor. Bucky... doesn’t want to think about what did that damage to Steve, who did that damage, leaving marks across cheek and nose, forehead and throat and...Bucky’s breath catches when Steve’s eyes flutter closed and he _sighs_ , turning his face into Buck’s hand. 

And Bucky’s heart is pounding, because Steve’s hair, Steve , smells so good, of clean sweat and cedar and his shampoo. Up close, his lids are shadowed and purple, a smudge against tanned skin, soft pink scars, and Bucky leans in, _slow slow slow, time crawling_ , willing his brain to stay in the backseat just a minute more...

He pauses, the barest breath of space between their mouths, and oh, Bucky’s heart might come right out of his chest it’s beating so hard. And Steve’s eyes flick open _blue blue blue the ocean and the sky, time stopping or maybe just his heart..._

And Steve kisses Bucky. His lips are warm and a little chapped as they linger over Bucky’s, a question rather than a demand. And Bucky answers, fingers stroking over Steve’s cheek, down his throat, lips moving gently against Steve’s, breath mingling warmly. 

Time stretches away from them, hazy and soft and unending, and Bucky feels solid and real, anchored in a way he hasn’t felt in months, years.

He laughs a little when he pulls back, but keeps his hand on Steve, fingers through soft hair, gentle now, a sharp contrast to earlier — gold strands over white, straining knuckles. Steve catches Bucky’s hand, kisses the palm, breath warm, and it’s Bucky’s turn to sigh at the sight of Steve’s head bent over his hand. 

Steve twines his fingers into Bucky’s, murmurs, “Buck, c’mere,” and Bucky goes, scooting forward until they’re side by side — hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together. Steve frees his fingers while Bucky dips his own feet in the water, then wraps his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him close. 

They sit, silently, for a time. The water is cool against Bucky’s feet, Steve's arm warm around him, but Steve is restless — hand running up and down Bucky’s arm, leg bouncing and sending ripples through the water. 

The sky turns pink-orange-red, the sun fades, and Bucky can‘t stand it anymore, can’t rightly follow Steve’s mood. He’s scooped out, hollowed by the intensity of earlier, by the build over the last few weeks, all of it fleeing and leaving him soft, too soft. to think overmuch, to stress. 

He smacks at Steve’s leg, holds it still, fingers wrapping around a knobbly knee. 

“Steve...tell me what’s in your pretty head.”

He can imagine a lot of things Steve might be worrying about. But, he’s still here, beside Bucky, and despite his agitation, he’s still holding Bucky gently, and even Bucky’s brain can’t twist that around to something too terrible. Steve sighs, heavily, and Bucky braces himself. 

“Bucky...I’ve...I’m...not...” Bucky taps at Steve’s knee. 

“C’mon Steve, spit it out.” He senses that Steve will prevaricate half the night, if given the chance. 

“I’m...I’ve done...unfortunate things. Immoral things, truly terrible deeds.” Steve pauses for a second, but whatever response he’d been expecting, he clearly doesn’t get it, so he forges on. 

“I’m bad.” He finishes, somewhat lamely.

Bucky laughs. He can’t help it. 

“Oh? Tell me, Steve, what are these unfortunate deeds?” 

“Bucky!!” Steve’s turning red again, and Bucky flutters his eyelashes, even though Steve probably can’t see it, angled as he is. 

“Please, Steve, please, tell me, how are you...” He drops his voice an octave, “bad?”

“Bucky! I am not jesting...joking with you, about this. I have done...” And now he lets Bucky go, Bucky waits, but Steve seems to be unable to go on. When no more revelations seem forthcoming, Bucky picks up the conversational ball, rolls it forward. 

“Steve...” He wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist, unable to watch the restless movements anymore. He can practically feel Steve’s bounding pulse, racing heart. He doesn’t want to say this, but here they are, and so he will. It’s getting dark at least, Steve’s face quickly becoming shadowed the longer they sit. 

“Steve. Sweetheart, fuck. I’ve done some real bad things myself.” Steve stirs a little, and Bucky squeezes his wrist, lightly, a warning. “It wasn’t always my choice, I didn’t exactly have a lot of free will, but I still did it . I’ve killed...hundreds, literally hundreds of people, and most of them just had the bad luck to be on Hydra’s shit list. Even my own goddamn friends, didn’t matter.

“And before that...in the war, well, I still killed a lot of people, and there wasn’t much that was honorable about that. I was a sniper, Steve, and I did that of my own free will, all on my own. And I could have gone home, but I kept doing it, I kept doing it for...” He trails off, gathers his thoughts.

“You can tell me, Steve, if you want. You don’t need to, I...don’t care, what you’ve done. It’d be fucking hypocritical of me. I know you don’t feel good enough, I know you carry the weight of what you’ve done, I _know_ , because whatever you’ve done, I’ve done...Just. As. Bad.” Bucky sighs, heavily. “It doesn’t excuse us, either of us, but if you’re worried about me, what I think...well, my hands are dirty, up to the elbow and beyond, with blood and violence” 

Steve shivers, pulls his feet up out of the water. They drip, wet and dark against the dry wood. 

“That makes two of us, then.” And Steve leans in closer, and he tells Bucky some of his secrets. The other men he’d killed in the arena, captives just like him, but that he’d just had a little more will, a little more skill, a lover who would kill for him, and the loyalty of a monster. All of God Doom’s seemingly endless minions, unwitting pawns. Doc Green. That, Bucky can see, hurts him the most, because Steve _does not regret it regrets none of the torture, the slow death,_ and it sits uneasily in his mind, irreconcilable. Steve clenches his hands “I would do it again, a hundred times, if I could.”

Bucky meets Steve’s eyes, shadowed in the dark. He thinks of Howard, thinks of heads glimpsed through a scope, metal hand coated in blood, thinks of how it has brought him to this moment, how it’d brought him to others, and he _moves._

He straddles Steve in a quick, sharp movement, planting his knees on either side of Steve’s thighs. Bucky sinks his hands into Steve’s hair, grips it tight, holding his head firm, meeting his eyes, unflinching. _“I would too.”_ He gives Steve’s head a little shake. “I’d do it all again, because Steve, there’s some good there. _We’ve_ done some good, even if it’s hard to see from the inside.” 

Steve touches Bucky’s hair, fingertips light, trembling slightly, while Bucky crouches over him, awkward. 

“Bucky...Bucky.” Steve laughs, shakily. “Bucky, we are both of us broken, damaged. But...” He sounds thoughtful, like he’s working this out as he goes, thinking aloud, and Bucky waits, patient, sensing that he can’t rush this. 

“It...doesn’t change what I feel. I feel...I feel...like...I... we ...deserve this, deserve...something.” 

It’s not an easy thing for Steve to say. It comes out like broken glass, ash and dust, and Bucky thinks of his other Steve, a man who’d rather die than say he deserved to be happy, to be safe, to feel secure. A man who had died, rather than reach for that happiness. 

Bucky lowers his head, and he kisses Steve. He kisses Steve, again, and again. Softly, and then harder. _Regret and promises and hope, most of all hope,_ all the things he doesn’t have words for, he tries to say with his lips and his tongue, his breath and his hands, gentle as they trace Steve’s face. 

And Steve’s arms wrap around him, and Bucky could fall backwards, off the dock into the lake at his back, sink into the depths with the moon bright overhead, but Steve holds him tight, holds him anchored and suspended and his kisses are an answer, an answer to a question unasked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -Steve cuts his arm with a knife to see if his healing factor is working.


	10. chapter 8 - got to keep control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve draw closer together. They're a little competitive about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> medical procedures  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Earth 2027 - The Cabin - the asscrack of dawn_

Bucky and Steve had kissed, for what had felt like forever, until Bucky’s knees had been screaming from the hardwood, until they’d been in imminent danger of humping like rabbits. They'd pulled apart, gasping, and Bucky had subtly tried to adjust his pants, pretending to ignore Steve doing the same. Then they’d resettled, Bucky tucked up against Steve’s chest, and they’d talked under the stars. The sky spread above them, water lapping quietly against the dock.

Unbidden, Steve had told him about Bucky; his warbound, lost to him on Battleworld.

Steve’s story had been hard to hear. Bucky had ached as he’d imagined that Bucky’s last minutes — afraid, alone. Knowing his gamble to save Steve, to save Devil, had failed. Bucky had known what that felt like. When he’d been in Azzano — he’d thought of nothing but his failures, his regrets. He’d mourned never seeing his family again, never seeing Steve again. He’d been afraid he’d die alone.

But that Bucky _had_ died alone, and Steve had borne the entire weight of it by himself, for years. Bucky hurts even more imagining Steve — jaw set and grim-faced, driving the shield into the neck of the Red King, opening the chest of Doc Green, searching without end. 

Searching for hours, for days, for years, for some evidence, some proof of life beyond a single metal arm. Searching for something while burning the world around him.

Bucky had cried, then. He’d cried for Steve and for his counterpart. Steve had held him tight and his whole body had quivered against Bucky’s, like he might take flight any moment.

Voice still shaky and rough from his tears, Bucky had shared his own loss. Having Steve and losing him, again and again. His own futile search that had ultimately ended in a flash of blue light, in the taste of ash and regret. Steve had listened quietly, hand stroking Bucky’s hair.

Afterwards, Steve had kissed him, rolling Bucky underneath him. He’d hovered above Bucky for a bare second. Bucky had seen the hesitation and wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, pulling him down over him. Steve had pressed kisses to Bucky’s forehead, his nose, his damp cheeks, the corner of his mouth, slow and reverent, learning the shape of his grief.

When he finally eased his lips over Bucky's, their kisses tasted of salt, and Bucky hadn’t been able stop shaking, as if he’d come apart in Steve’s arms.

Steve had left before dawn, going back to the cabin. He’d been apologetic, scuffing a toe, mumbling that Bruce had him doing a series of injections on a schedule, that he couldn’t miss the next one. Bucky had rolled his eyes, tugged the end of Steve’s braid, and sent him on his way.

He himself had stayed out later. Much later. The air had been too cold to stay at the lake, so he’d walked, wandering through the forest. He’d climbed over some of the abandoned, larger experiments, enjoying the burning feel in his muscles. Finally, he’d ended up at the Pym Platform.

Where it had all begun.

The platform had been glowing softly. Not strange, the usual level of illumination. Around the platform was one of the few clear areas, the trees surrounding the platform in a perfect ring.

He’d rustled around — he’d stashed a case of tools somewhere around here —

“Yes!”

He’d found a stray pack of cigarettes, badly crumpled but still dry. When he’d opened it, there were two left. Smoking’s a bad habit, but not one he’d felt particularly motivated to break, liking the scent of smoke, the ritual of smoking. He had lit the first, stashed the second, and clambered up to sit on the platform, letting his legs dangle over the edge.

The trees had framed the night sky, showcasing the scattering of stars in their soft mottled shades of blue. The first inhale of smoke had been good, deep into his lungs and then out, a soft cloud of smoke curling around his head.

He had taken a second, long drag, and then propped himself on a hand. Exhaustion had thrilled along his body — it’d been a long time since he’d exercised so intensely, even longer since he’d had such an emotional day, and he’d not been prepared for it, hadn’t fueled appropriately. Without the constant stimulus of combat and training, without highly concentrated nutrients, his body had slowly reverted closer to its pre-serum baseline. 

Sure, he still heals like a motherfucker, still has to support the (now considerably lighter) weight of his arm. Reflexes are still off the chart, but without all the extra muscle mass and constant exercise, he doesn’t need to stuff his face constantly anymore.

And, his serum had never been as — hungry as Steve’s, one of the many differences between the two. Bucky’d wondered if it’d been because Steve’s serum had had to work harder to make up for Steve’s baseline. Regardless, while he’d liked reclaiming something of his old body, things hit him a little harder now. Things like muscle soreness, and _ugh, hunger_. He’d made a face as his stomach growled.

Bucky’s brain had been still buzzing, mind running on endless loops, past and present. He and Steve hadn’t done much more than kiss, keeping to a narrow boundary by unspoken agreement. It had still been... _wow_...all encompassing.

It had brought up older memories. Practically vintage ones.

The first memory that had risen, unbidden — it’s a well worn one, one that never fails to produce a mingled feeling of affection, exasperation, joy...

He and Steve’s first time together in 1936. They’d been eager and clumsy, but so young, so fucking scared they’d get caught. Bucky had taken forever to relax, startling at every stair creak, each slammed door or raised voice. Steve had been relentless, working with fingers and tongue, sweet words and enough Vaseline for an entire flotilla of dicks. When they’d finally joined, Steve fully _inside_ him, they’d both just panted, open mouthed, foreheads touching, too overwhelmed for words. And then, Steve had started moving, coming in about thirty seconds flat and Bucky had nearly died laughing.

After that, Steve had sucked him off with a finger in his ass and more enthusiasm than skill. Bucky’d had a cigarette afterwards then tool, craning his head to blow the smoke out the window.

Whether he’d been more afraid to have Mrs. Barnes catch him smoking or with Steve’s dick in his ass had been a tossup, but his fear sure hadn’t stopped him on either front.

Now Bucky has had some new firsts, things he’d never thought he’d do again. That first hesitant touch from Steve, _this_ Steve, deliberate rather than the forced intimacy dictated by their circumstances. His fingertips had been hot on Bucky’s wrist, and the sensation had gone through him like a shock, had sent his pulse pounding. Their first kisses had been just as tentative, exploratory. The sunshine overhead had warmed them while Bucky’s heart had gone warm and soft in his chest. And now...

Bucky had felt his face go hot, and he’d smacked at a mosquito.

_Opportunistic asshole._

Being intimate, having sex again, with another person, had been unthinkable to him, at one point in time. Of course, he’d dated casually in the 40’s, they’d both had, but Steve had been _his_ , his partner, his lover, his husband in every way that had mattered then. Post Hydra had been a happy surprise, to enjoy touching and being touched, to feel desire again. 

When he’d lost Steve again there had been a part of him that had been a little regretful, that they’d shared their last moments, their last kisses and touches together all unaware, unknowing.

_When did he kiss Steve, last? Before breakfast? In their room?_

That grief though, had been distant, almost inconsequential, tangled up in everything else — he’d been full of the bitterness of repeated losses, coming so close only to watch the ash run through his fingers yet again. The aching loneliness, the prospect of a long, long life spent alone.

But, time had moved forward, and even as he’d fought it, Bucky had moved too. Thoughts of Steve still produced an aching gnawing in his gut, but with time it’d seemed less immediate, less raw. 

He’d hardly expected to win Mr. Congeniality at the Avenger’s Prom, but he’d had friends, companionship, some modicum of purpose, and it had been enough. Enough to keep waking up and moving forward. 

Sex had been different. Only been in the last year or so had he started to think he might want to do _that_ again, with someone. He’d always imagined it as a vague hypothetical. An uncomplicated hookup, if he could summon enough chill to go through with it. 

Bucky had shifted back and forth, ass going numb. (The idea of him having _any_ chill at all, ever, is laughable.) 

This situation now, with Steve, had not been exactly straightforward. The lies he’d told himself had been appealing — that he’d keep his attraction compartmentalized. Sure, Steve is the walking reincarnation of his lost love, and very attractive in his own right, and it had been logical that Bucky would be comfortable teasing him. Flirting with him. Being...frustrated by him. 

Sure, it hadn’t been painless — there’d been more than one twinge, more than one raw day when he’d seen blonde hair in the distance and felt his heart skip, not knowing if it was eagerness to see Steve, or eagerness to see _Steve._

So, there’d been pain, yes, but their relationship had still been sweet and fresh and _new,_ the sweetness no less diminished for the pain that had accompanied it, part and parcel. 

And Bucky had kept telling himself that the future _is_ simple. Of course, they fell together, but falling apart is just as likely. Steve will leave, will go back to his own planet, or be pulled there. He’s training already, and Bucky had known that his life is too quiet, too small for Steve, that Steve is hungry still, lit up inside, not tired like Bucky. That Steve will leave, again and again, until all they are to each other is a series of whispered goodbyes. 

He’d realized he was in danger already, tangled deeper than he thought he’d been, a whisper of _what if,_ hidden deep during the day with laughter and easy touches, with longing looks.  
In the day, it’d been easy. At night, alone with his thoughts... 

Bucky had been abruptly done, tired of his own brain. He’d put out his cigarette and hopped to his feet, making his way out of the woods. It’d been nearly morning, sun crawling over the horizon, soft gray light turning the faintest hint of pink. 

Fuck, he’d stayed out nearly the entire night. Distracted by his thoughts, he’d missed the creaky step, wincing at the resulting squeal _amateur move, very good._

Bucky had managed to make it to his room undetected anyways, no sign of Bruce or Steve, and he’d barely stripped out of his clothes before rolling himself into his blankets. 

Sleep had come for him almost immediately, rolling over him like a dark wave. 

  


Bucky begins his morning early, shooting awake after a few hours of fitful sleep, and unable to fall asleep again. Bruce is up early as well, installed at the table, coffee at his elbow, papers and books spread around him. He barely spares a glance for Bucky, grunting and reaching for yet another book off a stack piled up on the chair next to him.

Inspecting the fridge, Bucky sighs. A grocery run is long overdue, and the fridge contents don’t let him forget it. He’s decided on pancakes, _again,_ they have the mix for that at least, and he’s juggling the last three eggs and a large hunk of cheddar he’d decided to eat on the sly. His stomach is _growling,_ and the coffee seems to be brewing more slowly than usual. After mixing up the pancakes, Bucky resumes staring at the pot, watching each slow drip while chewing meditatively at his chunk of cheese.

He’s in the middle of a particularly large bite when Steve breezes in. He looks good, refreshed and alert, not at all like he’d spent half the night rolling around on a dock. His hair is bundled up in a huge mass at the back of his head and his long, black skirt swirls around his ankles, showing glimpses of bare feet. He’s in yet another of Bucky’s t-shirts, a pale flower patterned one he is particularly fond of.

Bucky can practically hear the seams screaming for mercy from his station in front of the coffee pot.

As Steve’s gaze snags on him, Bucky becomes suddenly, uncomfortably aware that he’s in what passes for pajamas, or least the clothing he wears around before he strips for bed or showers — ratty sweatpants, hole over the knee, another over his hip where he’d gotten snagged on a nail. He’s wearing one of the shirts from when he first came back — the one with the kittens, neckline shredded, sleeves torn off. He’d done only the most cursory of dental hygiene, and his hair is tangled. He swallows. He’d just fit most of a very large piece of cheese into his mouth. 

Steve drifts closer. Bucky chews faster, swallows, _ugh_ and then Steve is right in front of him.

“Christ, Steve, what did Bruce _do_ to you?!”

Steve has stubble. Not the light, prickling, blonde stubble that makes its appearance at the end of the day. This is full on, five o’clock stubble, thick and dark blond. The stubble hadn’t been there, a few short hours ago, when Bucky had been running his fingers over those cheeks, that jaw line.

Steve smiles. “Mornin’, Buck.”

Heedless of Bucky’s cheese breath, he leans in and presses a casual kiss to Bucky’s cheek. He smells good, like freshly washed clothes and toothpaste. Steve rubs his own face as he turns away.

“I just shaved a few minutes ago, actually. It’s really coming in, huh?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, fingers pressed to the cheek that just been kissed. His cheese lies on the counter, forgotten. Bruce continues to work, unaware of Bucky’s malfunction, while Steve bustles around getting a glass of water.

When Steve thunks his water down on the table, Bruce startles and checks his watch. “Steve, we gotta do another, you ready?”

Before Bucky quite knows what is happening, Steve is perched on the table and Bruce has produced a large, faintly glowing syringe from somewhere. There’s a sharp hit of alcohol in the air, and Bruce pulls at the waistband of Steve’s skirt. Bucky sees a sliver of carved torso, a glimpse of hip, and then the entire syringe is depressed in a quick, efficient movement.

Bucky had opened a cabinet. He’s not sure why. Hooligans surround him and the cabinet is empty. He closes it.

“I’m going out to breakfast,” he announces, to the room at large. “I’ll get groceries, uh, after.” Bruce grunts, already back in his books.

“May I accompany you?” Steve asks, a restraining hand on Bucky’s shoulder, before Bucky can flee to...somewhere. Somewhere far from here. Steve’s already at least twenty percent more beardy. Bucky can practically see it growing in.

“Yes,” Bucky says, transfixed by blue eyes, by a whiskered face. Steve waits. Bucky stares.  
“Um. Are you leaving soon?”

Steve touches a finger to the hole right over Bucky’s hip. Bucky’s skin feels too tight, too much sensation for such a small area.

“Shower! Shower first!” Bucky squeaks. It’s too much, he didn’t get enough sleep for this shit, for Steve being all beardy and kissing him, and touching him and he hasn’t had any coffee yet, they have the slowest shit-for-brains coffee maker in the multiverse.

A grocery list gets made, Bucky gets his coffee and his shower (and the rest of his cheese), and he keeps his shit (mostly) together during breakfast. They sit across from each other, and Bucky’s too aware of Steve’s big booted foot resting next to his, knobbly knee knocking into his own. They don’t talk of the night before, or anything of importance. They just sit and eat in companionable silence.

Before they left, Steve shaved again but whatever Bruce had given him is still working through his system, and he’s just as heavily stubbled. He’ll probably have a full on beard by nightfall.

The grocery run is similarly relaxed. Steve mostly pushes the cart, and Bucky loads it up with everything imaginable. He doesn’t like having to come all the way out more than once every couple of weeks, but sometimes the appetite of all three of them dictates another trip. Even so, he makes a point to add more food this time: high calorie foods, a huge jar of peanut butter, and a case of protein shakes.

Steve’s abs should not look like that. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t appreciate them. He sure as shit does, but the brief glimpse he got — well, they shouldn’t be in such stark relief. Bucky thinks that Steve probably needs to eat more, maybe run around a little less. Steve seems to have forgotten that he was on death’s door just a few short months ago, but Bucky sure as shit hasn’t. After thinking about the differences between serums last night, Bucky thinks that maybe Steve’s serum just needs to be fed more.

They make out a little, in the truck, before they unload. Bucky’s head spins, breath coming fast, at the taste and feel of Steve’s lips, the gentle way Steve cradles his face, and the flex of muscle in Steve’s thigh where Bucky rests his palm.

Afterward, they unload the groceries together. They work together like all the other times since Steve arrived and became healthy enough to help. It’s a practiced dance, as smooth and coordinated as a fight, moving around each other and sliding from task to task without discussion.

It’s nice. It’s really fucking nice, and domestic in a way Bucky hadn’t realized could be so appealing. 

The next weeks drift by in a warm, dreamy haze.

Bucky goes largely back to his normal routine, but now there are breaks in it. Breaks filled with laughter, with swimming in the lake and slow, lazy kisses. Late breakfasts, and the first tender spring greens, and long nights under the stars.

It’s easy. It’s easy, and it’s comfortable, and it feels oh so fragile. Bucky can feel the balance of their relationship, feel how delicate it is, how rapidly it could shift and alter. They’re suspended, in the moment, on an inhale, and Bucky’s belly is full of delicious anticipation, as if they could just tip the right way... 

Then they could have the world.

But the flip side of that could be disastrous, and Bucky feels a bit too fragile, like he might break, when (if) they shatter.

Steve, it seems, feels the same way. Hours can pass in heated conversation — the relative merits of different weapons, if Steve should make that cake with the cardamom in it again ( _yes_ ), stories from their pasts, if they should get more chickens ( _also yes_ ). The future, _their_ future, well.

It doesn’t come up.

They dance around it, when Steve’s dealing with side effects from his latest treatment, or when Bucky has to stop and breathe for a minute, to touch the ground and check the date, to make sure he’s still _when_ he wants to be.

It hovers, unspoken, suspended right above the uncertainty of Steve’s continued presence on Earth.

Otherwise, they share meals together, and Bucky takes over Steve’s corner of the garden when he keeps forgetting to water it. Steve ruins more of Bucky’s shirts, discovers internet shopping, and learns to drive a vehicle that is not a dinosaur. 

And.

They make out. A lot.

Their unspoken agreement does not extend to that. It doesn’t extend to Steve nearly getting caught with his shirt half torn off. Or to Bucky, gasping, painfully hard and covered in hickies, and thinking he has never, _never_ spent so much time kissing.

So much time necking, and petting, and making out, and all those words for kissing your fellow silly in a closet while trying to touch every inch of him and not be seen by your friend, who also lives with you. They don’t hide things, exactly. But they keep it surreptitious, try not to advertise, in yet another agreement they’ve never verbalized.

For two men who spend hours talking (and not talking), the topics they don’t talk about hover thick above them, a nearly tangible cloud.

Despite all their care, it inevitably turns absurd.

Bucky, when he thinks back, he blames the sword. And Steve, of course.

Only Steve Rogers, Bucky mused, would turn making out into some sort of competitive one-upmanship. 

But the sword, after all, had been what ostensibly gave rise to all of this. Steve had had to show him how to use it, and then he’d just had to spar with Bucky, and he’d done all those things while looking very sexy and also being kind and helpful and playful. So, Bucky had had to kiss him, and then they’d just kind of carried on from there.

Steve had continued with his training, and he mostly left Bucky alone while he did that. Sometimes he’d ask Bucky to try and shoot him, or do that weird thing with his thighs, or punch him super hard with the metal arm. Bucky had been angry, and yelled a lot, and had mostly ended up doing it anyway, and then usually that had led to Steve cajoling him into practicing with the sword.

He’d gotten pretty good, actually. He’s got a higher aptitude for learning a weapon than most, _Thank you, Hydra._

“Oh,” Bucky’d said, blandly, when Steve complimented his progress. “I’ve always been good with blades.” He’d been cleaning the sword, and he’d put a little undue intensity into the down stroke. He’d enjoyed seeing Steve’s cheeks turn pink, liked to see his face go funny when Bucky had proclaimed that the sword was really just a big, overgrown knife.

Still, teasing aside, Bucky had been ridiculously, laughably predictable. Steve’s easy competence with sword and axe alike had turned Bucky on, and his gentle, effective instruction had finished the job, as Steve had easily moved Bucky’s limbs, had positioned his body.

When they had sparred, Steve’d come for him, gaze intent, utterly focused. Bucky’d had to make every effort to stick to the lesson plan, to use his assigned weapon instead of his body that’s also a weapon, or the knife he’d hidden in his hair, or the length of fence he’d left deliberately loose, easy to rip away.

Or to run, twist away and evade, get up high.

Or to cheat in a different way, to feign a bit of clumsiness, to go wide eyed when he’d been disarmed, only to then kiss Steve, until Steve had dropped his own axe.

Steve’s natural attractions aside, he’d also done his best to drive Bucky up the wall. There had been no real reason for him to train shirtless. No reason for his hands to linger so long over Bucky’s body, to take such care with positioning his hips, to slide slowly over his ribcage. Even less reason for him to pin Bucky, against the wall, and on the ground, again and again, only to disarm him and laugh.

Steve’s breath had been hot against his neck and the sword blade had been cold and sharp, and the contrast had made Bucky tremble, caught on the edge until he could get himself together, to push Steve away. 

Sometimes he’d pushed Steve away.

Other times, he’d give himself up to it. Stared directly into Steve’s eyes, waited until his eyes dilated, and his breath had caught, when tension between them had drawn taut as a fish on a line. And then Bucky had let his eyes drift shut. He’d let his head rock back into the dirt, stretched his neck for Steve’s gaze. He’d drunk in the sound of Steve’s breath coming short and fast, the feeling of Steve’s body against him, starting to thicken, going rigid and hot against his thigh.

Or he’d take a page out of Steve’s book and sneak a shirt of his out of the laundry basket. They’d been too big, hanging on him and he had tucked them in at the waist in a futile effort not to be tangled up in the shirts, but it’d been worth it.

Worth it when he’d seen Steve’s nostrils flare at their mingled scents, had felt the way Steve had paused with his nose pressed against Bucky for an extra breath, had felt him inhale deeply. Later, when Bucky had been sweating, he’d pulled at the neckline, caused it to gape, watched Steve’s gaze fix on the edge of his collarbone, the trickle of sweat down his throat.

Either way, their teasing had frequently and rapidly devolved into a game of chicken, Steve trying to make Bucky give in, and Bucky doing the same right back. At first, they’d just played when they’d been sparring, relatively isolated, unless Bruce had happened to wander out and join them that afternoon.

After a while though, it had been on, all the time.

Steve had caught Bucky in the garden, and Bucky had waylaid Steve in the armory.

By the time they’re caught, the event is so anti-climatic it’s borderline ridiculous. It’s nothing as dramatic as being caught necking in the lab.

Which they had done, earlier that week. Bucky had pushed Steve onto the exam tables, had crawled up after him, and had been intent on getting his teeth into Steve’s neck, scraping them across Steve’s collarbone. They hadn’t gotten caught doing that.

Or making out in the kitchen, which they had also done. Steve frowns when he bakes, attention fully focused. Bucky likes the little crinkles that form between his brows, the way he pushes his reading glasses up on his nose. Hell, he likes the reading glasses, even if it’s just one more sign that Steve’s serum isn’t working quite right, that Steve’s well into his forties, as near as any of them can figure.

Although even Bucky’d been finding silver in his beard, creases that won’t smooth out, and his serum at least, is top notch. None of them are standing still, serum or no.

Steve usually props the cookbooks up against the coffee pot or the flour canister, fingertip trailing across the pages as he mouths the words silently. He’s careful and tidy. Scooping flour into the measuring cups in smooth, precise movements, leveling it off with a flash of a butter knife. He stirs at exactly the correct pace in symmetrical circles, the muscles of his forearm and bicep flexing and relaxing while his face goes soft with the easy routine of it.

The whole scene drives Bucky up the wall. Steve is irresistible, and Bucky can’t keep his hands off him when he’s baking.

Bucky had leaned over Steve’s shoulder, pressing his body close, coming up with reasons to ask questions to get Steve to frown and answer, absentminded while he focuses utterly on melting butter, or whisking egg whites.

“Is that butter?”

“Bucky, you know well this is butter.”

“Are you melting it?” Bucky had tried to sound suggestive, but Steve hadn’t picked up on the tone, frowning mildly at the butter.

“Hmm, yes, that’s why I’ve applied heat.”

Steve’s obliviousness had been maddening, and as before, the interaction had ended with Bucky’s hands hot on Steve’s hips, running up under his shirt, and teeth sinking into Steve’s ear while Steve’s head fell back, only for them to spring apart when they heard Bruce coming, or the oven timer dinged.

They hadn’t been caught then, nor when Steve had cornered Bucky, doing the endless, endless laundry. Steve had lifted him up on the dryer, and pressed his nose into Bucky’s hair, loose over his shoulders and smelling of detergent. Softly, softly Steve had stroked his hands up and down Bucky’s back, pressing closer and closer between his legs, spreading them wide over his own hips until the dryer had gone off with a loud, buzzing whine, causing them to rattle apart.

When it happens, it’s such a small thing.

Steve had been with Bruce all day — not unusual.

Bucky had been keeping busy. He’d been out to the store earlier, had gotten up even earlier to do his rounds, going all the way out to the very edges of the property, checking the cameras, the pressure alarms and so forth. Done, he’d checked the time. It was still early in the day, and Bucky had planned to maybe get take-out, as a treat.

There are many foods Steve hasn’t tried, and Bucky had thought he might pick up Thai, in celebration. Steve had been getting injections, on and off, and this latest series had been particularly painful, one after the other, a short break, and then another set. At the end, a dose of low level radiation, planned for the afternoon. 

Bruce has been circling in on a solution, and this one, it had seemed promising, but it’d _hurt,_ so far, hurt in a way that most of the other treatments hadn’t.

_Getting his own serum had hurt. It had hurt more than almost anything else he can remember._

So, Bucky had felt hopeful, that maybe this, maybe this time his efforts would work, get Steve a little closer to where he wanted to be. Bucky had been hopeful enough to plan for a special dinner.

Bucky had always counted himself lucky, that he hadn’t been there in 1943, when Steve had gotten his serum. Howard had told him, in the end.

_They’d been smoking, the two of them, back behind Howard’s makeshift lab. Howard kept saying he was gonna quit, had met a girl, blah blah blah. He’d always been meeting someone, back then, always wanting to clean up his act a little and never quite getting there. Bucky had had no intention of quitting._

_The serum had already been crawling through him, even though he hadn’t known what it was, back then. The smoking had soothed him, calmed him, let him focus in a way he often couldn’t marshal otherwise. The ritual, the feeling of the smooth paper between his fingers, sweet smoke in his lungs. Being able to sit quietly with Howard, shoulders close and rain pouring down, beating a rhythm over the canopy. Being able to talk about small nothings, well, that had been a soothing ritual of in and of itself._

_Howard had been confident to the point of arrogance. Polished, animated, conscious of his position, but here, with only the two of them, he had relaxed. Bullshitted with Bucky. Sometimes they drank a little, and Bucky had realized already that alcohol didn’t affect him much anymore, but it had made Howard chatty, softened his sarcastic tongue, and say more than he might otherwise._  
_He’d told Bucky how Steve had screamed and screamed. How Peggy had panicked, gone frantic. Eriskine’s concern, and the hush in the chamber, the government men waiting to see if their guinea pig would die._

_Steve’s heart had stopped, for a second, and then another, and Howard had been ready to call it, to rip open the capsule when Steve’s heart had started up again, the serum kicking in just in time. Steve had never mentioned that, only that the process had hurt “a little” when Bucky had asked, half out of his mind in Azzano._

So, Bucky had planned to order some delicious noodles, wanting a bit of sweetness after a rough day, even as his heart had hammered in his chest, hopeful that maybe this would work, this would be the thing to get Steve’s serum running again.

He’d felt less hopeful when he’d pushed his way into the lab that afternoon. Ostensibly, his fussing had been to see if Bruce had any dishes hiding in the lab, or stray towels, or any of the other flotsam and jetsam that accumulated when Bruce had been busy.

Really, he’d come in to check on Steve. 

The sight of him had made Bucky’s heart stop a little. Steve had been on one of the exam tables, cranked up so he’d been nearly sitting, arm loosely supported on a stack of pillows. As Bucky had watched, Bruce had emptied a syringe into Steve’s forearm, the veins bulging in response. Steve had squirmed, jaw clenching as Bruce had started the next injection. There’d been a whole row of them waiting; gleaming pale purple on dry ice. More had been empty than not.

Before he’d thought about it, Bucky’d been there, at Steve’s side, had heard him panting. Sweat had popped on Steve’s brow, freckles stark against pale skin. Steve had moaned softly when he’d seen Bucky, had fumbled with his free arm, reaching out. Bucky had answered, had laced his fingers into Steve’s, had let Steve’s weight lean into him, just a touch, a reassuring press of bodies.

Bruce had kept working, steadily, quickly, and Bucky had kept holding Steve’s hand, had let him squeeze his fingers. When Bruce had injected the last, right into the soft spot just above Steve’s elbow, Steve’s whole body had strained, mouth opening in a silent scream. The cords of his neck had stood out, strained, and Bucky had murmured soft nonsense in his ear while Steve had squeezed his hand so tightly his bones had creaked. Bucky had brushed a kiss to Steve’s hair, escaping from his braid.

Bruce had looked up as he’d replaced the last syringe. He’d taken in the casual intimacy of their bodies, beyond the easy physicality they’d shared from the beginning from Bucky nursing Steve back to health. His eyes had gone wide, and he’d said, “ _Oh._ ”

Then he’d said, “ _Shit,_ ” as Steve’s eyes had rolled up in his head, his hand going lax in Bucky’s.

Then he’d said a lot of other stuff, when Steve had started seizing, heels drumming against the base of the table. Bucky and Bruce had jumped into action then. Bruce had given out terse orders, and Bucky had followed them. A second series of injections, an IV line. Vitals, Steve flat, and Bucky had watched him carefully for any more seizures. Bruce had gritted his teeth, mumbling calculations, running risks and possible outcomes through his head, and then had hit the switch for the radiation.

The radiation hadn’t taken long, just a minute. It had felt like the longest minute of Bucky’s life, rivaled only by the countless minutes he’d spent waiting by the Pym Platform, waiting..

Bucky had watched Steve’s still form eagerly, tracking the lights dancing over him. Relief had washed through him and had caused his knees to buckle as Steve’s eyes had fluttered open, his pulse had come back down. He’d reached for Bucky, again, and Bucky’d just as quickly reached back.

After, Bucky will press his hand to his chest, feel the soreness of his joints, the finger shaped bruises.

He had been careful, so careful, to not think too hard. To enjoy what Steve is offering, what they share. But in that minute, that long, terrifying minute, when his heart had stopped in his chest and his fingers had gone cold and shaking, Bucky had realized that he hadn’t been as careful as he should have been, that he’d intended to be. That his heart is a little softer than he’d thought. It’s a thought he’d pushed back down, when Bruce called for him. 

The treatment worked. Kind of. Steve had roused slowly, and his vitals had kept improving. Bruce had run a half a dozen tests, and in the end, the procedure still hadn’t been perfect, but Steve had been healing quicker, quicker than he had been before, and sitting at the edge of the table, swinging his legs, demanding to be let up so he can really test it.

It had been annoying, and typical, and it’d made Bucky sigh deeply in exasperated affection.  
That night, they had all eaten Thai together in the living room. Steve drank his iced tea slowly, clearly savoring the flavor. He loves anything sweet, loves trying new beverages. After, he’d plowed his way through a truly alarming amount of food, hmmming appreciatively, eyes going wide when he tried something he particularly liked. After, Bucky had read his latest book, which had been so frankly erotic, his eyebrows had gone shooting into his hair every few minutes, and he’d kept glancing around, to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder, tracking the flush on his face.

Bruce and Steve had done a puzzle together, becoming borderline competitive over who could locate and place the edge pieces the fastest in a totally unnecessary competition that had had Bucky rolling his eyes. Then, Steve had caught Bruce hoarding the green pieces, and the table had ended up flipped, and then there had been dramatic yelling and accusations and it’d been nice.

It’d been nice, and it got Bucky thinking. Thinking that this, this is something he wanted, regularly. Well, maybe not the yelling part. He winced as Steve’s voice hits a particularly shrill range. He wanted —

His train of thought had been cut off when Steve had admitted defeat and had meekly helped clean up the puzzle pieces, had retreated to bed when he could barely keep his eyes open after the long day. Bucky had told him he should just go straight to bed, he’d had a long day, but Steve had been insistent, _he’d been promised noodles, and he felt **fine** Bucky, stop fussing. _

Anyway, Steve had gone to bed early, and Bucky had had to fight the urge to follow him into his own bed, because once Steve had been gone, Bruce had turned an eye on him, had lifted a single eyebrow.

Had waited.

Bucky had huffed in frustration, because this had not been a conversation he’d wanted to have. It hadn’t been that he didn’t want to tell Bruce, he had. But this thing between him and Steve, it felt delicate, fragile, like it might shatter. And, he’d been afraid, too. Afraid of what Bruce might say, what he might think.

And after today, there’s been new information, new feelings rolling around in his chest, which he still has to consider.

“Outside? Give me a minute?”

Steve’s super-hearing at least, is completely intact, and private conversations in this household have to be conducted at what felt like miles apart. Bruce had nodded and wandered down the stairs of the porch, thick sweater pulled firmly over his wide, green shoulders. 

The sweater is a horribly ugly garment, different shades of purple twisted with acid green. Brunnehilde had made it for him, and Bucky knows she can make nice sweaters. She dyes her own wool and wields her needles as deftly as Dragonfang. She had made Bucky a lovely one for his birthday, a pale blue with a twisting pattern that is incredibly soft and does amazing things for his eyes and skin. But, Bruce’s sweater is also extremely soft, and it fits him well, and he smiles whenever he pulls it on, so Bucky figures it gets the job done.

Bucky had taken his time before following Bruce outside, finding his own sneakers and socks.

_Another mismatched pair, he’d needed to go shopping or at least pull the dryer out, see what is hiding back there._

He’d pulled on a hoodie, a soft, faded gray number that was from some fundraiser for Kamala’s school.

Bucky doesn’t fully understand why kids have to shill for their schools. Bucky pays taxes for that, would happily pay more, but he hadn’t been able to resist her pitch, or, hell, the idea that she might not have what she needed at school. He’d bought two, one of the most plain, a gray hoodie with an inconspicuous Coles logo, and a more garish Cap one for Sam, and also a metric ton of chocolate.

He’d been less amused when she’d delivered it to him with a red star added to the shoulder, right where it had been on his old arm, but she’d told him the old arm was a “classic” and to “love himself”.

Wrestling into his hoodie, he’d stopped in the kitchen. There’d been a wedge of leftover pie he’d packed up and he’d fidgeted, balanced on one leg, while he’d waited for the kettle to heat and had thought about what to say.

Bucky had found Bruce easily enough, out on the dock. It’d been a clear night, a little cool, a nearly full moon hanging overhead. Bruce was cross legged, still in Professor mode, and quiet as Bucky approached, though Bucky had seen his shoulders tense, body subtly becoming more alert.

Bucky makes a point to step loudly. Professor Hulk is not the best fighter, and he’s not quite as whipcrack intelligent as Bruce, but his reflexes are still excellent, and the protectiveness of the Hulk for Bruce is undiminished.

Bruce sighed as Bucky sits beside him, passing him tea, poured carefully into a travel mug, and then pie, heated and cut into two. He’d let out a soft noise of appreciation as he’d sipped his tea.  
“Bucky, I don’t need to be sweetened up, I was just surprised, and wanted to see how you’re doing. Make sure you’re feeling...okay.”

Bucky had frowned a little as he’d focused on his own pie. That...had not been what he’d expected. Reassurance. He’d seen Bruce’s face go slack with surprise as Steve had turned into Bucky, seeking comfort. As Bucky had kissed Steve, absentminded.

Sure, Steve and Bucky had been physically close, given their history to date, but in the lab, when he’d seen the look on Bruce’s face, Bucky had felt exposed and vulnerable.

Defensive. 

He’d known immediately that all the care, all the tenderness and affection he has for Steve, _too much care, too much affection,_ had been in that quick, absentminded gesture.

They had both eaten for a few minutes, and then Bruce had set his plate down, kept working on his tea, while Bucky had undone his shoelaces, and then had peeled off his socks. He’d hissed as he’d lowered his feet into the cold water, and they’d continued to sit, quietly, companionably.

Bucky’s thoughts had run, while he’d finished his pie, savoring the crisp-sweet crunch of the apples, the cinnamon and cloves, and the tender give of the crust.

He and Bruce have a strange symbiosis, and they’re friends. Bucky considers him one, anyway, though nothing but circumstances could have bought them together. Bucky doesn’t think many people would have been so patient with him, especially early on, when Bucky was all rage and grief and unrelenting drive.

Food gone, Bruce had coughed a little and rubbed at his hair. Bucky braced himself for the inevitable awkwardness.

“It’s…I mean...doesn’t it feel weird?”

Bucky had bought himself some time to consider his response, patting at the pocket of his hoodie to locate his cigarettes and then tapped one out. It’d dangled between his lips precariously while he’d gone about extracting his lighter from the pocket of his jeans. It’d been one of his tighter pairs. He hadn’t changed for bed yet, and he’d had to rock to one side, extended his hip a little to get his fingers into the pocket.

Pointedly, he’d ignored Bruce’s faint huff of amusement. When Bruce had chuckled outright, Bucky had continued to ignore him, lighting up and inhaling deeply.

“Guess I know why you’ve been wearing such tight pants lately!”

Bruce had dissolved into giggles, and Bucky’d frowned, offended.

“These are my normal pants!”

“Sure, Buck, and you always wear them around at 10 pm. Come on, you usually put your sweatpants on within a millisecond of entering the house.”

“I do not!”

He does.

“And...” Bruce had waved at his face. “You’ve cleaned up. A little, anyway.”

Smoke had curled into the clear, dark sky. Bucky had swished his feet through the cold water. 

He’d wondered, idly, what his ma would say if she could see him, if she’d even recognize him.

Growing up, he’d always been mindful of his appearance. There’d been enough he hadn’t wanted anyone poking at too closely. It’d been important to keep himself inside the boundaries of acceptable. Hair kept regularly trimmed and styled with care, face shaved, clothes clean and always neatly pressed. Yes, he’d smoked, and hadn’t been a stranger to a drink or two, but that had been behavior he’d kept from his family.

He’d been acutely aware of the changes, in that moment.

The metal arm, of course. The long hair, the beard, smoking openly while wearing skin-tight pants. He’d rubbed at his chin. Yeah, he’d cleaned up a bit since Steve came here. Trimmed his beard, took more time with his hair, picked flattering clothes and soft shirts. He’s not that Bucky Barnes from the past, nor the Winter Soldier. He’s not even the Bucky Barnes from a few years ago. He’s something different, someone new, though he keeps those parts of himself carefully walled away in case he needs them again.

When Bucky had let out another long stream of smoke, Bruce had straightened and splashed a little water on him.

“Yeah, it’s weird. It’s fucking weird. Well, it is...and it isn’t.” Bucky had laughed, and it sounded abrupt in the soft air.

“I go back and forth, you know. Sometimes, I tell myself that this guy just also happens to be named Steve, but it doesn’t do much to resolve it in my head. It’s not like Steve and I broke up or anything like that, or that I even have any normal measure of...dating.”

He’d lain back, leaving his feet in the water. The smoke from his cigarette had risen above him, hung suspended in the air.

“They’re not much alike, you gotta know that, Bruce.”

Bruce had nodded, but hadn’t said anything, had just drunk his tea, and Bucky had carried on. “Steve. Stevie.”  
Because this Steve had most definitely not been a Stevie. There had been a Bucky Barnes, at one point, that had probably called him Stevie and meant it, but that Bucky is ash and dust, no second chances for him. 

That’d brought up other thoughts, that Steve had thought Bucky was dead and gone too, ashes and dust, twice over and yet here he is. He had shaken himself and started again.

“It was complicated. I mean, we loved each other, _so_ fucking much, as much as two people can but I left him and I came back and then I left again. We bounced together and apart a half a dozen times between fucking Thanos, and my own damn brain, and _fuck,_ Bruce, those five years. You were here. I don’t know what the fuck was going on.”

He had sat up again and plucked his cigarette out of his mouth, pointed it at Bruce.

“Leading therapy groups...trying to save the whole damn world. Before that, came straight out of the ice after trying to kill himself. Twenty-five fucking years old and in charge of a bunch of assholes.”

Bruce had winced and had started to say something and Bucky had stopped him with a wave of the cigarette.

“Nah, I know you guys needed him, and he,” Bucky had sighed and forged onward. “He’d have never been good, rested and worked on his shit. But he shoulda been bundled up in blankets and given therapy and cookies and uh —”

Bucky had coughed, because he’d been about to say ‘dick’ but he and Bruce aren’t quite at that level of sharing.  
“I should have been here. I know, _I know,_ couldn’t have stopped it, whatever, but for me, it was an endless moment in time. It was five fucking years for him, and he was locked up, tighter than a clam, didn’t tell me —”

“Bucky,” Bruce had said, very firmly, and Bucky’s mouth had snapped shut. He’d been rambling, the words pouring out of him in a confused mess.

“Bucky, I’m hardly qualified to judge you. I’m not exactly a shining example of forming or maintaining healthy relationships, _particularly_ , those of a romantic nature.”

Bruce’s expression had been wry, as he’d tugged at his hair. “I mean, at the end of the day, you’re both adults, presumably you’re going into this aware of the potential...complications.”

Bucky had nodded. Yes, he’d been aware of _all_ the complications here, what with the potential planet tripping, time weirdness, doppelgangers, etc.

“I feel like I should feel guilty, and I do, a little, but not nearly enough. I mean —” Bruce had cut in. “Buck, Steve’s gone.”

Bucky had flinched, and Bruce had pressed on. “He is. He’s gone, Bucky. Granted, he could be anywhere. He could be dead.”

Bucky had opened his mouth and Bruce had given him a look. “You know that as well as I do. Let’s not do this tonight, Buck. Okay? It’s been more than a few years.”

Bucky’s teeth had closed with a click. He’d fiddled with his cigarette, stuck it back in his mouth. His voice had been small, when it had come out.

“Steve...”

He’d thought it’d been clear who he meant, the Steve here and now, with the two of them. 

“Steve makes me feel good. He makes me...happy.”

He’d been surprised to realize it’d been true, as he’d said it. He’d been content, for a while, but happiness. Putting a name to it had made something uncurl inside him, something unsettling. Bucky had decided to pull his feet out of the water, it’d been getting fucking cold.

“He’s not...uh, he hasn’t had an easy time of it either, but I guess we’re all fucking disasters, in one way or another.”

Bucky had shrugged, and Bruce had fidgeted, focused on a small tear in his pants, worrying at it. He’d usually been more restful, as the Professor. Bucky had kept talking anyway.

“You know, Steve was always easy for me to love, and so is Steve. Different or not. Fucking weird or not. Maybe —”

Bucky had played with the tie of his hoodie. He hates the damn things, can’t help but see them as a hazard, kept talking anyways.

“Maybe I’m just wired to love Steve Rogers, no matter where he comes from.”

Bucky had narrowed his eyes at Bruce. He’d pulled this silent, worried, fidgety act before, and it had always gotten Bucky talking, spilling his guts.

“Leave those pants alone. What’d they ever do to you? I have enough to do around here without fixing your clothes, too.”

Bruce had waved a hand at him, dismissive. “I’ll get it myself, don’t worry.”

He’d ripped it a little wider and Bucky had winced.

“It’s okay, Bucky. It’s gonna be just fine.”

“So you say.” Bucky had hesitated a minute longer. “I...we…”

He had spit it out, then. “We haven’t really talked about being in a _relationship,_ or anything like that. We just kind of...uh...” 

He had grimaced, willing Bruce to understand.

“Ah,” Bruce had said quietly. “He doesn't know you love him?”  
“I haven’t told him. I’ve been —”

Bucky had shrugged. He’d barely come around to that himself.

“Time’s ticking, Bucky.”

Bucky had startled, looked up, and Bruce had snorted.

“I mean, yes, time is always moving, and of course, you don’t know, if he might get pulled back, so, uh, maybe don’t fuck around there.”

He had given Bucky a significant look before going on.

“But, practically speaking, he’s healed. The serum. Well. I’ve done what I can at this point. There are a few other things I can try, but really, I've exhausted my resources and knowledge. And the Avengers, they want to meet him.”

“...oh.”

He’d known it was coming, had had to be. Steve still had a ways to go but he’d been getting stronger every day, and he wasn’t Bucky. Steve still had the fight in him. It would have been weird for them not to want to see him. Earth is still vulnerable, and really, they’d been funding his whole recovery.

Bruce had plucked the cigarette from his lips, fast as a striking snake, and put it out. “Those things are gonna kill you. And probably me.”

Bucky had snorted. “The two of us, we’ve been exposed to so much shit, we’d have to eat twenty packs and they probably still wouldn’t hurt us.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Bruce had gotten to his feet, limbs and spine unfolding with an ease incongruous with his large body. Bucky had followed him, and they’d both stretched for a second, arms overhead, hands pressing into lower backs, acting for a minute like they’re old men, stiff from a long sit-down.

“Steve’s not immune, though. He’s still mostly human. Dunno yet how much the new treatment will help.”

“I know. I don’t smoke around him.”

“Hmmm.”

Bruce had sounded noncommittal, but he’d patted Bucky anyway.

“Steve’s a good guy. And you deserve love.”

Bucky had felt his eyes go damp, and he’d focused hard on his feet, the still damp hems of his jeans. 

“Don’t stay out too late.”

That’d made Bucky sputter, and he’d sat defiantly until after Bruce had made his way back up the dock.

He’d gone for another cigarette, and had squawked with indignation.

“That asshole!”

He’d remembered Bruce patting him gently, sympathetically, standing close, a hand trailing off his... “He pickpocketed me!”

He’d thought about it for a minute more.

“Huh.”

He’d lived with Bruce now, for a few years, and the guy still had hidden dimensions, it seemed. Bucky hadn’t even _suspected_ it, but the evidence is clear enough.

He’d sat for a minute more, starting up at the stars.

They’re different here, and sometimes he missed the sky he used to stare at. Not in 1936, when he’d been young, out on the fire escape with a cold bottle and open shirt, dreaming of the future; but during the Snap.

He...missed that sometimes.

Things with Steve had been too good to last. Though, it’s not over yet.

Steve could still...

They could...

He could ask for more...

They’d been drifting, but now that Bruce knew, now that things had been changing, it’d been time for Bucky to re-evaluate. 

Bucky had cleaned up the miscellaneous items left on the dock, thoughts bouncing around his brain. He had dreamed that night, not one of his own.

_Hot sand under his bare feet, sun beating down his head. Bucky shakes his head, feels sweat fly from his brow, slide over his chest. His hair hangs heavy and damp down his back, but his grip on his sword is sure as he braces himself, looks his opponent over. The enormous being is vaguely froglike, huge headlamp eyes shining, and when it opens its mouth, Bucky can see a long, long tongue, studded with hooks. It slides out, tasting the air._

_The stands are packed, Bucky’s ears ringing with the cacophony, and he slides a foot out, tests the ground, gauging how much the sand slides under his feet. It’s already damp, stained dark with blood._

_He raises his sword in a salute, and the frog winks at him, one, large glowing eye blinking closed. He can barely hear himself but he murmurs anyway, “Best of luck, Bob.”  
Then he’s racing forward, sword raised high, mouth stretched wide, heart racing, like it does every time and..._

Bucky is unaccountably nervous in the morning.

He’d dreamt all night, of hot sand and blood, sun bright hair and still, dry air. It’d been a shock to wake, to feel dawn cool air on soft sheets.

He does his chores early, leaving and coming back without seeing any of his roommates. Sweaty and ready for a shower. Padding quietly into the kitchen, he keeps his ears peeled, for Bruce, for Steve.

Steve, he can hear down the hall, singing tunelessly. It’s some pop song, something that was popular in Steve's world before. There are many high vocals, and some screeching, and it’s scared the shit out of Bucky more than once when Steve’s really gotten into it.

The kitchen is warm and messy and empty. Bucky had dumped the dishes in the sink before going to bed, too tired to deal with it, and it looks like Steve and Bruce have just added to the mess since then. Oven on, coffee brewing. There’s a pile of flour on the counter, a bowl filled with...Bucky surreptitiously dips a finger in...yup, cinnamon, brown sugar. Butter, piled up in neat, soft cubes.

Bucky passes by the table, touches the note there with his fingertips — Bruce’s neat scrawl.

_Gone to New Asgard  
Back tomorrow  
Want wool?_

Bucky snorts. He enjoys knitting, but nothing he makes is ever anything someone might want to wear, himself included. To use some of the excellent wool they make on New Asgard for his knitting would be a travesty, and if Brunnehilde saw what he did with it, she’d kick his ass.

He would like some of the cheese they make though, and he pulls out his phone to text Bruce, fingers tapping at the keys. He gets a response right away, an agreement to secure cheese.

Then an emoji comes through, then a flexed bicep. Followed by a metal, flexed bicep. A running man, an eggplant emoji, more vegetables and fruit, a string of hearts, a clock. An eagle. A whole line of fireworks and starbursts.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Bruce and emojis...he sends one back, a carefully selected grimacing face, and then silences his phone, goes for coffee.

When Steve enters the kitchen, Bucky twitches and his hand follows, adding twice as much sugar as he usually does. Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

He breezes by, large, covered bowl in one arm, other hand coming out to pass over Bucky’s lower back, gently scooting him forward a couple steps, murmuring a good morning in his ear as he passes.

Bucky smiles, involuntarily, grinning into his coffee like a fool.

It warms him, and gives him resolve, courage enough to turn around.

Steve’s across the kitchen and Bucky watches him for a few minutes, carefully unwrapping butter and putting it on the stove to melt.

He still has that big, silly smile on his face, and his heart feels too big for his chest.

Steve pulls the bowl close, removes the woven dishcloth in soft sunset shades, letting the smell of yeast fill the kitchen. He turns over his shoulder, catches Bucky watching, and he waggles his eyebrows at Bucky.

“Hey, Buck, you wanna punch the dough?”

Surprisingly, Bucky does want to punch the dough. 

Before he knows it, he’s putting his coffee cup aside, washing his hands, and then slipping beside Steve. Steve with messy hair and bare feet. His reading glasses are perched on his nose. There’s flour smeared on a cheek and dusting the front of his sweats.

Steve smiles, his eyes crinkling as Bucky tucks in beside him, and he passes the bowl over.  
Bucky uses his flesh hand, not wanting to clean dough out of his metal one, but he shouldn’t have worried. The soft, round ball of dough is well greased, and it gives under his fist, pliant and yielding and sending up a delicious odor of yeast and butter.

Then Steve is taking it back, turning the dough out into the flour with a little puff. Sleeves pushed up to his elbow, strong forearms flexing as he rolls it out neatly, swipes melted butter over the entire surface. Bucky just watches, content, too close for it to be convenient. Steve doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shoo him away, just repositions him as needed.

When Steve reaches for the bowl of cinnamon sugar, Bucky finds his voice.

“Bruce knows.”

He blurts it out, and then winces. _Smooth._ Steve dips a spoon in the bowl, carefully begins to shake the sugar over the melted butter. When Bucky had tried to do this before, he’d ended up dumping the entire bowl on top, and then spreading it out with a spoon. Steve is calm as he dispenses the sugar evenly over the surface. His voice is just as calm

“Knows what? That. We’re —”

Now he seems to struggle, brow furrowing as he tries to think how to classify Bucky, them. 

“Together?” Bucky says as Steve says, “Courting?”

“Courting?!”  
Bucky sputters. Steve still just sometimes does not use the right words for things. The modern words, and Bucky _knows_ Steve knows the right words, knows that he spent most of his goddamn life on a _normal_ planet. Whatever normal is. One kind of like this one, anyway.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Bucky sputters a little more.

“Isn’t...isn’t...you tell me, _Steve,_ is this the way courting goes, on your planet? Making out  
in labs and sexy...sexy sword fighting and yard work —"

He trails off, because he can see that Steve’s laughing at him, mouth quirking up at the corners as he finishes with the cinnamon-sugar.

“Did you like when I put nutmeg in these, before?”

Bucky nods, and Steve gets out the nutmeg, begins to grate it over the brown sugar. When he starts to roll the dough, into a one, long tube, he speaks again. 

“No, it’s not exactly how we court, but then, nothing is normal there. I barely remember before, and anyway. Bucky and I, we had no need of those things. We fell together, and never fell apart.”

He pauses, smoothing the dough at the edge of the roll, and Bucky moves behind him, not wanting to get in the way when Steve starts slicing. He rests his head on Steve’s back, between his shoulder blades, letting Steve feel the warmth of him, silent comfort.

The muscles in Steve’s back, his shoulders, tense and release. Then tense again as he starts to slice the dough into rounds.

“Until he died,” Steve finishes, simply. “Until now, there has been no one else. Yes, it is true, I don’t know what is done normally, but cooking for someone, making food to their taste, teaching new skills —”

A particularly pointed slice of the knife.

“Particularly if it will protect them. Sharing labor, and laughter.”

Steve puts the knife down, turns, and catches Bucky in his arms. Steve pulls him close, arms wrapping tight around his waist. Steve’s eyes are very dark, cheeks pink.

“Sharing affection. Yes, Bucky Barnes, it is how I court someone, it’s all I know. And I think —" Steve’s been calm, but now Bucky can see him hesitate, can feel how he shifts his weight nervously. Steve licks his lips.

“I think you’re courting me, in your own way.”

Bucky’s heart is beating so fast, he thinks it’s going to come right out of his chest, come right out and bounce on the floor of the kitchen. But it’s true, he _is,_ has been all along even if his conscious brain wasn’t quite there yet. Bucky bites at his lip, tracks how Steve watches him, feels Steve’s fingers flex into his waist.

His whisper is hoarse, words coming from a great distance away and barely escaping his lips “Yeah. I, uh, don’t spar with just any old guy.”

He drinks in Steve’s low laugh of relief, the way his body relaxes against his own. When Steve lowers his head, Bucky is quick to tilt his own face up, to lean in against Steve’s chest. Steve’s own heart is beating, so fast that Bucky can practically feel it, but his lips are still soft on Bucky’s. Wisps of his hair fall around them, perfumed with flour and sugar. Bucky can’t stop his own hands, can’t stop them from touching Steve’s hair, caressing his cheeks and the back of his neck.

All the while, their lips move together, tasting, caressing. Steve’s tongue delicately teases at Bucky’s lips. Their breath mingles, coffee and sugar, while their tongues twine together, warm and wet. Bucky can’t catch his breath properly, until finally Steve raises his head. He’s breathing hard, too, cheeks red, and Bucky’s hard. He’d felt Steve growing hard against him, and his head’s spinning and that kiss had felt...

He wants to kiss Steve again.

He wants Steve to kiss him, to pick him up and press between his legs. He wants Steve to pull him close again, and to fuck him. Bucky’s not sure if he wants to cry or scream because he’s full up with emotions, too much, too fast. He does want to wake up with Steve in the morning, see what he looks sleep dazed in sheets when it’s not a goddamn hospital bed.

Steve pulls back, takes a slow, deep breath. Then he turns back to the cinnamon rolls, begins to pile them into the pan. His voice is a little more strained than before, but still calm, soothing.

“I don’t care if Bruce knows. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of anything we’ve done together.” 

He glances at Bucky. Quick, sidelong. “Or might do.”

Bucky’s voice is rough and he barely recognizes it. “I’m not embarrassed either. Or ashamed. I’m —”

He reaches out, very gently touches the end of Steve’s braid, where a loop of hair has come loose. Bucky’s fault, probably. Softly, he continues, “I’m happy. Happier than I’ve been. It wasn’t a secret, exactly.”

“A game?”

“A little, yeah,” Bucky laughs. “It was fun, right? Bruce. He was fine.”

“He cares about you.”

Bucky feels his mouth snap shut. Because, yes, that had been at the center of it. Bruce worried for Bucky’s heart. Inexplicably, he can feel tears prickle at his eyes, but he pushes that down, remembers Bruce’s ridiculous text message. Clock’s ticking. He braces himself.

“Steve. I want. If you want—”

He’s tripping over his words, and he’s in too far, he doesn’t think he can make this sound romantic, or even that appealing, but he doesn’t want to wait, to wonder. He blurts it out.

“I want more.”

Bucky clears his throat, pushes on, “Uh, more sex, that is. With you. To do it, together.”  
Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, and he carefully covers the cinnamon rolls with the colors of a sunset writ in plaid. Bucky’s not sure if he's getting through and yet somehow his mouth just keeps going.

“There's been no one else, for me, either since Steve. And you. I. You make me happy, like I said. I’d regret it, if we didn’t...I want...I never thought I’d want this again, with anyone and if you’re not ready.”

Bucky rushes on, “I can wait, or if you won’t want to at all, I like what we’ve been doing but we’re kind of heading there anyways, and I want it be — intentional.”

It’s true as he says it. He wants it to be intentional, something they choose together. He didn’t lie, he likes what they’ve done, but it’s been impulsive, instinctive, two people groping towards something half blind.

Steve puts his arm around him, pulls him in close. Bucky fits easily, under Steve’s arm and he warms as Steve presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“I want to. Bucky, I want to.”

He holds Bucky for another minute, and Bucky can feel a faint tremble, in the big muscles of his trunk. “I’m scared,” Steve says, suddenly. “But I want to.”

Bucky reaches up, tangles his fingers in Steve’s. It’s a weird angle, but his metal elbow does it easily. “We’ll do it, together.”

Steve kisses him again, and says, “Tonight?”

Part of Bucky wants to yell, “Now!” and fling himself on Steve, before his nerve fails him, before anything can happen, but he wants the time. Wants Steve to have the time to think, too.

“Yes, tonight.”

Then, Steve puts the cinnamon rolls away to rise, and they drink more coffee together, fingers laced together. Eventually, Steve wanders off for his morning training and the other miscellaneous things he busies himself with, and Bucky is forced to wait.

Well, he’d done everything he’d planned that morning, and now he's looking at an entire day. Without anything to distract him from the upcoming night.

He curls his fist. He’d forgotten to tell Steve about the Avengers.

But, it can wait. For a little bit, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:**  
>  -Steve gets a series of painful injections, as well as other shots throughout the chapter.


	11. chapter 9 - hands on your hips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky follow through on their intentions. The Avengers come to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> panic attack, PTSD, undiscussed/sub-optimal reassurance, poor/no negotiation, embarrassing situations 
> 
>   
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

Bucky spends the rest of the day in a flurry of (mostly) unnecessary activity. He avoids Steve and the training area, takes the chickens out for a second time. Then unable to stand his nervous energy, he grabs his keys, leaves a second note.

_Gone to store._

He’d hesitated a second, and then he'd scrawled a heart underneath, not thinking too hard about it. In town, he tries to kill time. He buys coffee, and savors it, cold and sweet. He doesn't buy any pastries — Steve’s baked goods have spoiled him. After, he peruses the bookstore. Lingering overlong in the LGBTQ section, which consists of a single shelf. Some novels and nonfiction, but mostly erotica.

He pages through a couple, feels his cheeks heat, puts them back.

He thinks he can figure it out still. It’s not rocket science, and his desires, he thinks, are not too complex — he’s hoping for something good, maybe some orgasms not of his own making, maybe more than that. At the end of the day, he’s really after a new closeness with Steve, to have his own body be lovingly explored, and do the same for Steve.

He puts the books back. He figured things out just fine with Stevie before, with a lot less life experience and resources at their fingertips, and they’ll figure it out now. In that same line of thought, he skips over the sex shop, the only one in town.

It’s a sad, moldering building with a suggestively winking pair of neon eyes in the window. He’s seen the old woman who owns it, shuffling along to the diner for lunch, and back again, and he can’t stand the thought of going in, of having her watch him peruse dildos and condoms and God knows what else.

In the end, he goes with what he knows, which is grocery shopping and a trip to the hardware store, and then he’s back home. He’d tried to stop at the drugstore on the way home, but he’d begun to panic in the ‘family planning’ section. He’d stared at the long rows of bright, sterile looking packages, breath coming faster and faster, until he’d found himself back in the truck with his head resting on the steering wheel.

He’d never had any of that, of this degree of planning before and it’d been fine. It’d been good. It’ll be fine.

It will definitely be fine.

When he gets home, he spends the rest of his afternoon more productively. He cleans the entire kitchen, scrubbing the floors, the tables, washing every dish, before turning his attention to the rest of the house. Dusting, sweeping, mopping.

He’d not thought to ask where they were...he didn’t want to assume. And so, he cleans his room as well, flinging open the windows to air it out, scrubbing the entire bathroom top to bottom. Fresh sheets on the bed, and after his panic in the store, he goes through his nightstand and finds a half-full bottle of lube.

It’ll be fine.

He takes his time getting dressed, scrubbing up thoroughly, savoring the smell of his soap (black pepper and ginger and deliciously spicy), scrubbing his fingers hard over his scalp, trimming his beard with care. When he wipes the fog off, he thinks for a minute about cutting his hair, lifts it up off his face. Tries to imagine having short hair again. Passing his hand over his beard, he imagines the feel of soft skin and stubble instead, but he’s just not ready for that, maybe not ever.

They’d kept him mostly shaved, as the Asset, skinned close and any emotions he’d ever felt, anything at all, had passed right through on his bare face. More than once, a handler had mockingly pressed a finger to the dimple in his chin, lifting his face with cruel fingers.

Pretty boy, they’d called him, early on. Not so much, later. He has vague memories of Steve touching the same dimple, calling him pretty, but Steve’s fingers had been gentle, voice reverent.

He shakes himself.

Yeah, he’s not ready for that. Maybe not ever.

He wears some of his softest jeans, faded gray, and he colors a little, remembering Bruce teasing him last night. Yeah, they’re pretty tight, but stretchy, sliding smoothly over his thighs and hips, button fly closing easily. He fucking loves modern fabrics, has little nostalgia for the clothes he grew up in.

He picks one of his favorite shirts, pale blue, scattered with tiny birds. He’s sure that Bruce meant it as a joke, but the fabric is soft and the sleeves fit easily over his prosthetic, and hell, it even has buttons. He wants to look nice for some reason and takes time with his hair.

He attempts a braid. Frowns at the uneven loops, and tries again, with two this time. Pulls it all out, and then ends up pulling back the top half, letting the rest hang loose.

Bucky prepares dinner by rote — it’s his turn, would be even if Bruce had been home, and he doesn’t have the bandwidth for anything complicated. Soup and sandwiches, nothing fancy. He didn’t even burn the bread, watching it like a hawk, when normally he might wander off.

When Steve comes in, it’s clear he, too, took extra time with his appearance. His skin is scrubbed pink, and his hair is damp. Those long, golden strands are in a neat braid, hanging over one shoulder and leaving watermarks on his shirt. Steve is wearing jeans as well, the soft, faded ones Bucky had spent far too much on at the department store. When Bucky looks at him, he takes in the flared nostrils and restless shuffle of bare feet.

His heart turns over, and he remembers, again, that Steve is just as nervous as he is, that this is just as new to him. Time goes a little soft after that. They eat, like they have a hundred times, sitting across from each other. This time, Bucky presses his foot against the edge of Steve’s, and it anchors him, keeps him in place while they eat and talk and laugh.

Clean up done, dishes ferried to the sink, and then Steve is pressing Bucky against the edge of the sink, nose in his hair. Bucky has to work hard to keep his hands calm, keep from crushing a glass with his metal hand. _Amateur, he hasn’t done something like that in years. ___

____

____

Steve inhales deeply and runs his nose along Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky..mmm. You smell —”

Bucky sets the glass into the drying rack. He doesn’t look at the big hands, braced on either side of him.

“It’s ginger.” Bucky says, unnecessarily, as he rinses another glass. His own hands are strong, capable, one scarred, the other dark, sleek. They look small, compared to Steve’s.

“You _always_ smell good, so fucking good.”

Steve’s nuzzling where Bucky’s shoulder meets his neck, breath warm against his skin. The profanity startles Bucky. Steve rarely swears. There aren’t a lot of dishes, and soon enough, Bucky is turning, catching Steve’s hand, pulling him down the dimly lit hallway, down the long row of closed off, unused rooms.

He can feel the quiet press in on him, around him, tug at the grip he has on Steve’s hand, long calloused fingers intertwined in his. A pause outside his door, a silent question, and Steve squeezes his fingers in assent.

The door clicks open on the mostly dark room. Bucky had left the curtains open, and a slash of light falling across the bed. He’d picked the room for that, had liked the way the moonlight fills it, sends it glowing at night. Bucky pulls the door closed, lets his back rest against and he just looks.

His feet aren’t cooperating with anything else just now.

Steve’s not been in his room that he can remember. Bucky hasn’t been in his either, not since he moved out of the infirmary. An invisible line, one they’ve now rushed over, and Steve’s wandering around, his curiosity extinguishing the urgent heat between them. Bucky’s glad for that, for the moment to stand, and breathe, and watch Steve.

Steve, who is running a finger over Bucky’s books, looking over the framed pictures and the detritus from his pockets on the top of his dresser. Knives stuck in a vase like a bizarre bouquet, crumpled bits of paper, Chapstick, a heap of tiny screws.

Steve stirs a little dish, one filled with coins and small rocks. He passes a hand over one of Bucky’s plants, his first, a particularly hardy breed of fern.

Bucky still remembers the first time he’d repotted it, how terrified he’d been when all the dirt had come loose, leaving the roots bare, vulnerable. How relieved he’d been when they’d been nestled back into the dark, damp earth he’d carefully patted into place. He’d watched it for weeks, for signs of growth, for decaying leaves. He’d obsessively changed the light, dispensed water.

When the first, tiny leaves had unfurled, Bucky had cried over it, his tears soaking into earth. Later, he’d shown everyone he knew — dragging Bruce into his room, because he hadn’t wanted to move the plant, sending pictures to Sam, hell to the entire Avengers group chat he keeps muted.

Bucky steps forward from the door, feels the reassuring, solid wood leave his back.

Another step.

Another.

Into the center of his room. His fingers on the buttons of his shirt. One undone, then another, sliding apart, until his shirt hangs open, and still his feet are moving, silent, pulling him closer, closer to Steve.

Steve, who twitches the sheer lining of the curtains closed. Leaves the heavy, light blocking ones parted. When he looks over his shoulder, looks at Bucky, his inhale is audible, and he smiles, faintly, lips curling.

“I want to see you, still. I want to see you under the moon, like before...”

He trails off, and Bucky remembers. He remembers their first kiss, in the sunshine, and their kisses later, under the cool moon, above the lapping waves.

Bucky clears his throat, tries to remember how to breathe properly, how to speak. His voice is husky, soft, and unfamiliar to him.

“Yeah, that...I want that too. To see you.”

Emboldened, Bucky lets his shirt fall to the ground, leaving him bare. His eyes flick to the floor, and he has the briefest feeling of self-consciousness. He’s not twenty anymore, has had some scars that persisted, despite the serum. And the arm. It’s better than it was but still not flesh. Bucky hears an audible inhale, and looks up involuntarily.

Steve’s staring at him, his fists clenched by his sides, mouth soft, open and his eyes...

_Oh_

Steve has seen this. His body is not new or strange to Steve. Steve's eyes, soft and filled with heat are proof of that. Bucky feels his feet moving again, feels his hands go to the fly of his jeans, the top button sliding free under his fingers, and his eyes never leave Steve’s.

Steve drops on the bed like Bucky cut his strings. When Bucky gets close, Steve reaches out. “Let me? May I...?”

Steve’s fingers hooking into Bucky’s belt loops, drawing him close. Bucky goes to him, amused despite himself.

“ _So_ fucking polite, Steve.”

Steve sighs, rubs his face against Bucky’s torso.

“I’ve dreamed of this for many nights. Touching you, properly, like this.”

Steve’s big hands, newly calloused, echo the words, sliding up over Bucky’s back and curving over his ass, his thighs, tugging at the pockets of his jeans. All the while, Steve’s words are whispered hot against Bucky’s side, his vulnerable abdomen, while the moon dances off Steve’s golden hair.

“These jeans, Buck. These buttons are just begging for me to undo them, to pop them open, one at a time.”

One button slips free, then a second, and Steve’s mouth moves against Bucky’s hip, licking at the sensitive skin as he slowly, slowly peels the jeans down Bucky’s legs.

Bucky has to dig his hands into Steve’s shoulders, fight to keep his knees locked as Steve continues to undress him slowly, almost leisurely. Steve nuzzles at his underwear, and _fuck,_ he looks beautiful. Face blissful, eyes shut as he inhales deeply, presses his damp mouth over Bucky’s dick, over the fabric stretching tight.

Bucky’s been gradually getting harder, a slow, pleasant slide into desire, but that’s too much. He’s suddenly aching, wanting more, desperate for the feel of Steve’s skin against his own. He tries to push Steve back, to clamber onto the bed with him but he’d forgotten his jeans were tangled around his knees.

“Oof, _oh, fuck! _”__

____

____

Bucky, the epitome of grace and stealth, an unparalleled assassin, the Winter fucking Soldier — falls heavily onto Steve, flailing as he tries to stop his unceremonious descent and kick his goddamn jeans off. All the while Steve laughs breathlessly under him. A soft warm sound that converts abruptly to a pained groan when Bucky accidentally digs an elbow into his gut.

Bucky goes still as Steve’s arms come up around him.

“Hey, Buck, good of you to drop in.”

Bucky groans, and hides his face in one pleasantly firm pectoral.

“You are not funny.”

He mumbles, enjoying the contrasting textures of soft skin and wiry hair.

They’re sprawled together, legs hanging half off the bed, and biting Steve’s nipple suddenly seems like a good idea. It’s so conveniently close to his mouth. So he does, gently, teeth closing and tugging, until he hears Steve groan, before he pulls away to lick at it, feeling it change under his tongue, his teeth.

Bucky loses himself in the sounds Steve is starting to make, little gasps of surprise and soft moans — in the feeling of a strong hand scrubbing over his scalp, trailing over his shoulders — Steve wriggling under him, trying to scoot up higher on the bed and their legs on the bed.

Then Steve squawks, going tense. Bucky prepares to roll off him and reach for a weapon.

“Leg...cramp!” Steve gasps, aborting Bucky’s dive off the bed for the gun he’s got stashed. Bucky frowns, mood broken, on the alert for potential side effects. “Did you...?”

“Just a cramp. I got them before,” says Steve, sighing with relief as his legs straighten out. “I think I did, anyway.”

Bucky leaves it, respecting Steve’s clear desire not to go into his entire medical history. When Steve attempts to shift him up in the bed, gripping him firmly by the hips, Bucky cooperates. He flushes, when Steve laughs — a sudden, bright sound.

“How did I not notice these before?”

Steve’s attention is caught by Bucky’s underwear. They’re bright red and snug, low over his hips and high on his thighs. He slides a finger up Bucky’s hip, teases under the edge of the shorts.

“I didn’t expect these.” Delighted, Steve looks up at Bucky. “Bucky! Does all your underwear look like this?”

Steve clearly seems to think Bucky’s been holding out on him, and Bucky can feel his face going even redder, matching his shorts. “No! I, uh, need to do laundry. These are —” He trails off, staring down at Steve’s big hand. Grinning, Steve continues to touch him, tugging at the waistband, pressing his palm against Bucky's dick where it's clearly outlined against the thin fabric.

Bucky’s hips jerk, suddenly and Steve laughs.

“You should...neglect the laundry more frequently.”

Another hand is sliding into his shorts, around the curve of his hip, fingers barely brushing his ass, and Bucky’s not sure if he should push back into Steve’s hands, or push away.

“If _someone_ wouldn’t leave his shirts around...”

Bucky runs his fingers over Steve’s ribs and his belly until Steve twists under him, gasping with laughter.

"Bucky!”

Bucky lifts his eyebrows without stopping his roving fingers, easily shifting his perch on top of Steve to accommodate his increasingly wild movements.

“Yeah, Steve?”

He keeps his expression one of bland inquiry even though he wants to laugh. Wants to grind against Steve. Wants to keep tickling him until he’s breathless and gasping, and then kiss him.

Bucky’s having fun, he realizes with a little shock of surprise. He had spent a lot of time worrying about this moment, worrying that it’d be awkward, or that it’d be weird. That he’d freak out, or that Steve would. That, despite not getting laid since roughly 1945, he might not be ready to do this with someone else.

But this is just another game. A little more serious, sure. He’s eager for it, but if it goes sideways...

Bucky wiggles his fingers, sneaking them up under Steve’s shirt, and Steve fucking _giggles_ under him, body shaking, and Bucky knows. Even if it goes sideways, it’ll be okay.

Steve twists away from him, gasping.

“Buck!”

Steve trails off into snorting laughter as Bucky leans in to bite at Steve’s earlobe. “You want something?”

A flick of his tongue produces more giggles.

“I’m TICKLISH!” Steve bursts out.

Bucky grins, traces his tongue over the curve of his ear, noting the missing notch, then a second. “Oh? I couldn’t tell.”

He tries to wriggle down further, starts tugging at Steve’s shirt with no real goal except feeling more of Steve’s skin against his own.

Steve matches him — draws off Bucky’s shorts, pulling off one sock, then another, tossing them aside into the pile of discarded clothing.

Bucky does what he’s been wanting to for days. No, for weeks. Since the first time he’d patiently untangled Steve’s long, matted hair and braided it back for him.

He unwraps the hair tie and slowly untwines Steve’s braid, loop by loop. Free, it falls in a heavy mass, full of waves. Bucky presses his face into it, inhales deeply, citrus and vanilla. He runs his fingers through it again, and again, while Steve sighs, lets his head fall back against Bucky.

Steve’s own jeans go next. He is not wearing underwear.

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky drawls, half-admiring, half horrified. “Doesn’t that chafe?”

It’s an incredible sight, the skintight jeans pushed low on Steve’s hips, blond hair tracing down his belly and lower, disappearing into them.

“Hmmm, well, it's not the most comfortable but it’s not exactly…nngh.”

Steve cuts off abruptly as Bucky slides his hands inside, making short work of the rest of Steve’s clothing. They fall together in a collision of tangled limbs, uncoordinated kisses, and warm skin sliding together.

Bucky lets his face be drawn down to Steve’s, then their lips are meeting in a proper kiss, and _oh_ it’s good, so good. Steve’s mouth is warm and soft under his, and his scarred hands are so gentle, stroking over Bucky’s jaw, his cheek, and trailing over and through Bucky’s hair, down his throat. With each touch, Bucky feels more of his worries fall away, replaced by uncomplicated desire.

Time goes soft, blurring around the edges and all Bucky knows is Steve — the taste of his tongue and his skin salt slick under Bucky’s mouth. The feel of his body, skin still too taut over carved muscle. Long limbs wrapping around him. He drinks in the noises Steve makes. Surprised gasps when Bucky finds a new, ticklish spot and whispered encouragement when Bucky rubs up against him.

A low moan, " _Fuck yes, oh,_ ” when Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s cock. Bucky’s own sharp inhale when Steve copies him, the feel of calloused skin rough against him as Steve strokes him slowly, unhurriedly.

It does go a little sideways, later.

Bucky’s on his belly, turned over at Steve’s urging, stretching long and lazy. Bucky arches up into Steve’s hand, and Steve tugs at his hips, pulling them up, and Bucky goes easily. He turns his cheek into the soft sheets, knees spreading further apart. He feels good, and fuck, it’s been so long, and it’s so good, so familiar, arousal and languorous anticipation curling in his belly.

He groans softly as Steve strokes his whole back again, lingers over his ass and pauses, an unspoken question in the hesitation of his hands. Bucky doesn’t want hesitation, not anymore.

“Yeah, come on.”

Bucky is pushing his ass into Steve’s hands, encouraging him. A quiet exhalation and the hands are moving again, kneading at his ass, running over his thighs and _oh fuck_ Steve’s mouth is hot against Bucky’s spine, even as his hand slips between his cheeks, fingers trailing down over his hole, then back up again, teasing and gentle until Bucky writhes under him.

Slick fingertips slide back downs, pressing more insistently over his hole, while Bucky tries to remember to breath, wills his stomach to stop jumping, eagerness rising with nerves for Steve to just do it, get it done with.

He feels like his plant, roots exposed and vulnerable, and he’s panting now, struggling to stay still.

“Hey!”

Bucky cries out, the sharp nip of teeth on his ass startling him out of the slightly sick combination of anxiety and arousal. Steve huffs in amusement, licks at the bite, breath warm, and Bucky relaxes, muttering into the sheets about certain guys who are not funny. Steve just pats at him, big hand over Bucky’s hip, before kissing Bucky open mouthed, up and down his back, tongue tracing each vertebra until Bucky’s breathless again, but in a good way, a pleasant, melty way.

Steve’s quiet now, and Bucky’s mind has gone soft and blown out with pleasure, the entire world narrowed to the feeling of one long finger now moving inside him, long steady strokes, occasionally brushing against his prostate.

A second finger now, twisting deep into him and then pulling out, only to push in again and _fuck_ it’s lighting him up and he can’t be still now, can’t be embarrassed even as he hears himself, a constant litany of moans and little gasps falling while his hips move, restless, seeking more. He wants to drop down to his belly, rub himself against the bed or better yet against Steve’s cock, but he’s transfixed by the sensations Steve’s wringing from him.

Instead he rubs his cheek into the bed, tries to push his hips higher even as his nipples rub against the sheets. Bucky feels his knees slide further apart and he’s going weak, mindless with pleasure, realizes he’s begging, _more more more_ hungry for it. He wants more, wants to be full, to feel Steve pressing his dick up inside him, the weight of his body over him, and then the fingers are moving faster, fucking him harder, twisting against his prostate each time now.

The other hand is hot on his hip, teeth hard against his spine and he’s panting, desperate, lightning behind his eyes and up his spine and he’s about to fucking come from just a couple of fingers in his ass and a couple of kisses but oh fuck he is on board for that and he’s right on that edge and he can hear himself moaning, helpless and loud and that only makes him hotter and then he’s coming, hard, body convulsing with pleasure.

“ _Shit,_ yes, Steve, fuck. ”

He freezes when he hears a low, satisfied laugh behind him, familiar and not.

Bucky had been sweating, and the damp on his skin goes cold in a flash, leaves him drenched. Then he’s frantic, the fingers still inside him suddenly an intrusion, too much. He scrambles, desperate, trying to get away, wincing at the frankly gross squelching noise as the fingers slide out of him. He crawls halfway up the bed, not getting anywhere, turning into a mindless, wild thing.

Fingertips touch his foot. Bucky freezes, ready to kick, to fight but —

The fingers just rest there, on the vulnerable arch of his foot, not moving to grab him or restrain him just...resting. Bucky breathes in. Out. Feels his familiar sheets, the bed, his bed under his knees and along his shins, under his hands. Feels the familiar hand on his foot, warm and calloused.

Steve’s hand.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice comes out quavery, uncertain. Christ, he’s shaking.

“Yeah Buck, it’s me.”

“Can. Can you...? He’s not sure what he’s asking, but Steve’s hand curls around his ankle, smooths up his calf, and Bucky’s limbs are trembling too badly for him to stay upright. His collapse is not particularly graceful, but Steve’s warm body is sliding in next to him. The physical contact isn’t enough, he’s still feeling shaky, like he’s going to come apart, like the pieces of him might dissipate and drift away.

Bucky pulls at Steve, tugging at him until Steve’s entire body is on top of him, holding him secure, pinning him between warm solid flesh and the rumpled sheets. It’s...enough, and Bucky relaxes, the tremors stopping gradually while Steve murmurs in his ear, soft and deep.

When Steve shifts a little and sinks his hand into Bucky’s hair, Bucky sighs, long and low. Steve tugs gently, just enough for Bucky to melt the rest of the way.

It’s like when they fight, when Steve pins him and turns him into a long stretched, aching nerve. Also familiar, but this time Bucky softens into Steve’s hold. The tension in his scalp, the weight against his body, together — Bucky knows he’s here, he’s now, he’s with Steve, and he knows _when_ it is, and it softens him.

He’s safe. He might come apart, but still Steve could hold him here, keep him close, keep the pieces together.

Slowly, words start to make sense again. He can hear his own name.

“Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Come back, darling.”

“Here...okay. I’m here.”

Bucky clears his throat, and then continues, “I’m okay. I’m sorry. Fuck, Steve, I’m so sorry.”

The words are tumbling out of him now, a little too fast and not making any damn sense. “I got confused, I think. In the dark.” His face heats, hot against the cool sheets and he doesn’t want to say more, can feel embarrassment thrumming through him. Steve goes still above him.

When Bucky pushes up, trying to turn over, Steve lets him, sliding his body to the side. Bucky sits up slowly, wincing.

One thing he can say for sure, seems like all the Steve Rogers (of Bucky’s extremely limited sample size of two) really overdo the lube, and he has the squelchy reminder to keep him company.

He reaches for the bedside lamp and clicks it on. They both blink for a second at the flood of golden light.

Bucky readjusts himself, trying to find the right words. The right way to explain, to say, _I’m sorry_ and, _I didn’t know who you were_ and, _Forgive me_.

Steve sits next to him, and he looks fucking young. The soft light hides the lines at his eyes, and the hair sliding around his shoulders hides some of the scars, the big one that cuts across his shoulder, the thin ones crisscrossing his back.

Now, in the light, Bucky is starting to feel a bit foolish.

It’d been different, in the dark. It’d been too familiar, too easy. When he’d come, Steve’s name on his lips and body limp with orgasm, he’d not been sure who had been behind him, in him. Who had been wringing pleasure from his body. There’d been a moment where he hadn’t known _when_ he’d been. The disorientation, that hated feeling of timelessness, it had been too much.

Bucky twists to face Steve so they sit across from each other on the bed, legs folded. It’s like being a child, in some ways. Sitting close, heads bending together, secrets shared.

But they're not children, and Bucky is scared. Words were easy for him, once, and they still tumble around his head, a confusing blur of noise and light, but the next step, the speaking of them. That part is no longer easy.

He knows if he leaned into Steve, hid in his hair, and spoke into his neck as he’s done before, Steve will let him, will cradle him, and shield him. But it seems important to be direct, not to hide.

“Steve, I’m sorry. I, uh, panicked. When I,” he stops, takes a deep breath, tries again. “When you.” The words are stuck and fuck it’d be nice if he could not blush. “When I came, I panicked. Got scared.”

“Oh,” Steve says quietly, looking down at his hands. “Was it unpleasant? It seemed well...I thought. Should I not have?”

Bucky can see the emotions darting across Steve’s face. Worry, fear. Bucky hates the way it looks, hates that he’s the cause.

“No!” Bucky says, too quickly. He grabs Steve’s knee, so close to his own. “It was pleasant.” He snorts at the bland word. Fuck, it had been good, really good.

“I wanted to, wanted to with you.” More softly now, fingers squeezing Steve’s knee, gently, feeling the bristly hair. “I still want to. But it was dark, and I couldn’t see you, and I haven’t been with anyone, with anyone else since Steve, and you. You’re you. But.”

Steve rests his hand on top of Bucky’s hand, his touch feather light. “I’m me. But I’m also him. And you forgot? Or didn’t know?”

Bucky nods, miserable. “Just for a minute. I didn’t know when I was.”

“Oh, Bucky. It’s. Well.”

Steve’s brow furrows, but he’s not angry. His fingers stroke Bucky’s hand, his arm, gentle and soothing.

“I don't want you to be fearful, and unknowing, to not know who you are with. Of course, my uh...ego? Pride? Wants you to know it is me, wants your body to know, it is me. When you cry out, when you come, when you shake with pleasure and come apart.”

He lifts Bucky’s hand and brushes a quick kiss to his knuckles.

“I want you to know it is me, each time. But, I am not built of pride alone, and this, between us. It is not straightforward, for all that you are easy to love. I think, sometimes, it will be hard to know. Do I love you, because you remind me of the Bucky I loved before? Or because in some ways, you are the Bucky I loved before? Or do I love you despite that.”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. What matters is that you are not afraid, and that we try to go together, to see each other, the best we can.

He speaks of love, of loving Bucky so casually, and Bucky wonders how he can be so brave. Lay himself bare before Bucky with such ease. Steve rests his hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, pulls him close.

“When you are lost, when you are spinning, I will anchor you.”

He’s so solemn, so serious, and with just a breath between them, Bucky believes it. The set of his jaw, determined, muscles flexing in his arms, his chest, and it’s familiar, so familiar it makes his heart ache because Bucky knows the unspoken bits.

_For now. As long as we have. As long as I’m here._

They both know. It hangs over them, heavy, but Bucky flings himself forward into Steve anyways, overwhelmed. Steve’s breath escapes him a second time as they meet in a tangle of limbs, and then a third time in a soft groan, as Bucky fastens his teeth on Steve’s throat.

They learn each other in the soft light. Fingers whispering over each other, lips meeting again and again until they're both panting, breathless.

Bucky savors every inch, every bit of Steve. The rapid beat of his pulse in the soft flesh under his jaw. The jagged line of his collarbone, smooth on the right, interrupted on the left, a fractured memory. The way Steve giggles again, belly tensing, when Bucky runs his tongue over his side. The feel of Steve’s too-lean muscles, the curve of his ribs, still just a bit too prominent. The smooth, heavy weight of Steve’s cock and his low groan, the helpless movement of his hips when Bucky strokes him, slow and firm.

Bucky sighs when Steve kisses his throat, light kisses high under his jaw and down over his chest. He shivers when Steve touches his legs, tracing the thick muscles of his thighs, his calves, and the delicate bones of his ankles. More little sucking kisses, over his hips and the inside of his knees, his thighs. When Steve wraps his hands under his thighs, Bucky lifts his legs, holding them obligingly.

He looks moony-eyed, foolish, he’s sure, face going red, stars in his eyes as he watches Steve, watches Steve slowly smooth lube over his cock.

He feels Steve’s hands on him again, pushing his thighs up and back, opening him. Bucky lets himself be moved, feels his muscles pliant like taffy. He sighs again, long and satisfied, as Steve slides his fingers back into him, and this time, it’s as easy as it’s ever been, a few deeper, long breaths. The air fills his lungs, warming him, and sending his chest floating up to the ceiling and it’s slick, hot, good.

And he doesn’t want to wait anymore. He’s whimpering with impatience, small sounds falling out of his throat, into the warm, damp air between them. Steve is smiling down at him, pressing more kisses to Bucky’s knee, his thigh, while Steve’s hand moves, slow and insistent between Bucky’s legs. Bucky’s smiling back up at him, eyes fluttering closed and

_Oh_

Steve’s pressing into Bucky, one smooth, long thrust that seems to go on forever. Bucky’s head is spinning. It’s a little painful but good, so good, and for a moment

 _he’s 19 and Steve is pressing into him..._  
_he’s 27 and ragged and scared but Steve’s mouth is hot..._  
_he’s 32 and his teeth are sinking into Steve’s shoulder..._

Then he’s 110 _maybe_ and he’s lost time and gained it, and probably will again. He’s on Earth, in his bedroom, and Steve, _his_ Steve, this strange, beautiful man is smiling down at him. Steve’s shaking with fine tremors in his arms and Bucky’s smiling back up at him, a perfect moment hanging delicate between them.

Then Steve pulls out a little, pushes back in, and seats himself fully. It pulls a cry from Bucky.

“Nghhh. Come on, Steve. Come here.”

Steve kisses him again, lips warm and damp against Bucky’s knee. He starts moving, sliding in and out, easy and smooth and fuck, it’s good, it’s amazing, and it’s been so damn long. The exquisite, almost too much fullness, the slide and the drag. He’s hard, so fucking hard, but he can’t stop pushing himself against Steve, desperate for more, for Steve to move faster, to fuck him harder and deeper.

But Steve just keeps moving, slow and steady, pulling out nearly all the way before pushing in again, a smooth, steady pace that has Bucky writhing, pleasure pooling in his spine. Then Steve changes the angle a little, hands sliding on Bucky’s thighs, hot and calloused. The new angle is good and they both groan, low and deep. Bucky’s back arches, his eyes closing. The next thrust, and the next, and the next, are all just as good. He’s dizzy, unable to catch his breath.

“Buck, hey Bucky.”

A deep voice, close to him, and his eyes fly open. Steve’s face is right above his, so close, eyes so blue, scars shining. Bucky hadn’t even noticed, but he doesn’t hesitate, tipping his face up for a kiss. Steve meets him halfway, lips gentle as they caress Bucky’s, tongues tangling together, breath mingling hot and sweet.

Bucky’s sliding into that too, until, “Ughh! What the fuck?”

Steve grins down at him. He’d nipped at Bucky’s lip, hard. Bucky should maybe be pissed, but instead he moans when Steve does something else with his hips. Steve laughs, low and throaty.

“Keep your eyes open, Buck. No floating away.”

Bucky nods, wordless, his own tongue coming out to touch his bitten lip. From a long distance away, he can feel his arm twitching, hand scrabbling into the sheets, reaching for Steve’s hard, calloused fingers. They twine into his, fingers interlacing. Another kiss, gentle on his swollen lip, and Bucky doesn’t have any trouble keeping his eyes open, staying grounded.

Steve keeps fucking him, keeps holding his hands, keeps looking into his eyes and dropping light kisses on his lips, his forehead, and his throat. Bucky just stares into Steve’s eyes, watching the blue darken and pupils dilate. Tracks Steve’s face, skin flushing pink and then red. First, his cheeks, then down his neck, and over his chest, skin gleaming with sweat.

Bucky watches the vein in his forehead, the flutter of Steve’s own eyes, his mouth open, soft. Steve finally begins to move a little quicker, leaning in to kiss Bucky yet again. Bucky’s metal hand moves restlessly, up and down Steve’s side, curving over his hip and his ass, feeling the muscles flexing there.

Dragging it back up, his hand comes to rest against Steve’s face. Steve pushes his face into the cool metal and groans into Bucky’s mouth as Bucky’s fingers lock into his hair, wrapping tight.

The air between them is charged. Bucky had been sliding into slow, lazy pleasure, but now they’re moving together. Steve’s hips are moving frantically, slamming into Bucky, and Bucky meets him each time, hips arching and legs wrapping tight around Steve. His mouth is everywhere, licking under Steve’s jaw, biting at his collar bone, and tasting his shoulder.

Steve’s red all over now and in a corner of his mind Bucky is amused, the flush clear to Steve’s belly button and lower. Fuck, when he cranes his neck just right, curling up off the bed so he can see, Steve’s cock, dark red and so hard, shining and slick with lube. Emerging and disappearing deep inside him, over and over. Steve catches him looking.

“ _Fuck, fuck_ Oh, Bucky...you...I’m.”

Steve's whole body is quivering and his thrusts are erratic, harder. His other hand fumbles, pressing Bucky’s leg even further back, and Bucky can’t resist. His flesh hand is still trapped in Steve’s, but he slides the other down, nearly yells when he brushes his own cock.

But then he’s brushing his own hole, feeling it stretched wide around Steve, Steve’s cock sliding against his fingers, going deeper inside of his body. He’s pinned, anchored, and then Bucky can't keep his hand off his own cock anymore. He jerks himself off, in frantic, uncoordinated movements.

When his orgasm hits, Bucky goes rigid, whole body tensing, and he _bites_ Steve, right on the chest. The noises he’s making are not ones he’s familiar with, deep, guttural cries that sound like they’re being dragged from him, cut from his throat, his come hot against his belly. Steve groans, and Bucky can feel Steve coming, cock pulsing, jerking inside of him, his name is on Steve’s lips as he collapses over him.

Their hands are still locked together so tightly that Bucky thinks he may have fractured something. He’d gladly break it and heal it up again, ask for it again and again, time after time, but it's a confusing thought, too big for him right now, something to put aside for later. 

They’d twisted sideways on the bed somehow and the pillows are nowhere to be seen, but it’s another concern for later. Bucky’s lips are moving and he’s somehow talking, sweet silly things about how good it was, how happy he is, right here with Steve. He feels his lips bump against the fragile, notched shell of Steve’s ear.

Bucky drifts away for real after that. He’s lost in the feeling of Steve’s skin against his, the rise and fall of Steve’s chest against his own, Steve’s breath hot on his throat, his whole body wrung out. He twitches when Steve pulls out, aftershocks of pleasure mingling with too much. He has a minute to regret not putting down a towel or something.

“Mmm, fuck, condoms.”

“What?”

Steve’s voice comes from far away as they resettle themselves, finding a cool spot on the rumpled sheets, retrieving the lost pillows. Steve winces, shaking his fingers as Bucky slowly flexes his own.

“Oh, we should have, I don’t know, talked about safe sex. Used condoms, or something. Or, hell.”

Bucky, any self-consciousness he may have had completely gone, slides his hand between his own cheeks and gently presses at his hole. He can’t stop the sharp inhale of breath. Despite Steve fucking him for, oh Christ, it had felt like hours, it still feels good to touch himself. He really hadn’t, not much, since...before.

Not a thought he wants now, actually. He’s a mess, and a little sore, but he comes back to himself and sees Steve looking at him, bemusedly. Suddenly, he wants to show off, not pontificate about wrapping it up, or complain about the mess. Instead he stretches, lets Steve see where his fingers are wandering to, long enough to see Steve’s pupils start to dilate.

He stands, looking down at Steve.

Steve’s cheeks go a little pink. It’s incredible, after his directness, the way they'd come together. Bucky loves it, loves his stammering response even more, the reversion to formality.

“Oh. Oh. Um, I believe Bruce tested me for all manner of ailments, sexual included.” Bucky tugs Steve up off the bed in an easy, quick movement.

“Never mind it, right now. Help me clean up?”

When he presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek, soft and lingering, Steve goes even pinker, and Bucky wonders if he’s always like this after sex.

The afterglow doesn’t last long. Bucky can’t resist pressing an icy cold, wet towel right up under Steve’s hair, the back of his neck, and laughing at his squawking indignation.

Steve retaliates, completely excessively in Bucky’s opinion, splashing cold water right into Bucky’s face and all over the floor. It triggers what Bucky thinks might be one of the least erotic post sex clean ups probably ever, as they pile into the shower without waiting for it to heat up, and rough house their way through a quick shower.

Bucky had been eager to dry off and crawl back into bed, but he revises those plans when Steve presses him up against the wall of the shower. Steve’s cold, damp skin is a sharp, shivery contrast to his hot, wet mouth, moving over Bucky’s shoulder and his throat.

They get distracted a half a dozen times more. By each other, by the chance to touch and keep touching. But, Steve also pokes through Bucky’s bouquet of knives, the other bits and pieces on his dresser. They talk, sprawled out on sheets, about small, inconsequential things.

And Steve lets Bucky braid his hair. He’s been dying to do it again. He hasn’t done it since Steve was unconscious. That had been utilitarian, an effort to keep it out of the way, saving Steve from matted hair, and a potential buzz cut.

Bucky knows he’d braided his sister’s hair. His fingers remember the feeling of damp loops of hair, the right hand hold, the tug, the soothing feeling of strands running through his fingers. It comes back to him when Steve folds his big body up, tucking himself between Bucky’s legs. He starts, separating out strands, weaving them one over another. He doesn't braid all of it — just a few, twisting through his hair. He leaves them loose, doesn’t have enough hair ties.

It’s a new, quiet intimacy, and Bucky treasures the way Steve leans trustingly against him, leans his cheek against Bucky’s knee. The way Steve sighs with pleasure when Bucky scrubs his fingers over Steve’s scalp, finger combing the remaining tangles. The way Steve curls sleepily into bed after, pulling Bucky close.

Bucky falls asleep surrounded by Steve’s warmth, the fragrance of Bucky’s soap on both of them, and the scent of sex on the sheets. He falls asleep with the sound of Steve’s deep, even breathing in his ear, big arm slung around his middle, and he dreams.

_Steve but young, no scars yet, hair cut short, and he’s laughing, they both are. Steve’s holding his hand, fingers sliding gently over his wrist and then...Steve's the same but his eyebrows are pinched, mouth cruel, and he’s twisting Bucky’s wrist, hard, until the bones crack._

Bucky falls asleep in the quiet peace of his room and he dreams in disturbed fragments. He wakes in a confused hullabaloo, things happening too fast, too loud, with a confused mess of images and sound filtering into his consciousness.

_Cheerful loud voices, and then yelling, screaming. Banging and crashing and the faintest touch, brushing his hair. Buck’s bed, empty._

_His door left hanging open._

Bucky sits bemused for barely a second, hearing a familiar roar outside his door, feeling the faint warmth of the sheets.

And then he’s swearing, every creative word he’s ever learned, knife in hand, and he’s moving down the hallway, as quickly and quietly as he can. He’s at least got his underwear on, had pulled it on half asleep at some point in the night, between staggering out of bed to set the alarms and curling back into the warm curve of Steve’s body.

The yelling is easy enough to follow, and as Bucky’s head clears, he most unfortunately recognizes the voices. His first impulse is to sigh, go back to bed, avoid what he is sure will be a debacle, but instead he keeps weaving through the house, the circuitous hallways to the kitchen.

The sight that greets him is really too much for anyone, especially at barely past dawn, and the noise is unbearable.

Steve is wild-eyed with no weapons but his shield, and as he hears Bucky approach he gestures wildly. “Buck! Get back.”

Bucky restrains a sigh. This is all so unnecessary, he can feel it already.

Steve looks...well. His hair is completely wild, falling nearly to the small of his back. Sleeping on it damp has turned it into a huge, wild mess, exploding around his face, only minimally restrained by the few braids Bucky had twined into it. Steve holds the shield held protectively, trying to block the entire hallway, rotating subtly to try and include Bucky.

Bucky can admit, privately, that Steve looks magnificent, if you don’t notice the frantic look in his eyes.

And Bucky does notice. Notices the half dozen Avengers in his kitchen. Notices the white lines of strain around Steve’s nose, around his mouth, and fuck, he’s got to fix this, fast.

Quietly, out of the corner of his mouth, he murmurs, “It’s okay Steve, they’re friends. We’re safe.”

Steve's gaze snaps to his, and it’s distant, wild. His teeth are clenched and Bucky has the distinct impression that Steve is two seconds away from snatching him up and running. Steve searches Bucky’s face, hungry for something. The noise falls away around them, going quiet. It’s just the two of them, linked for a single, eternal moment.

Bucky weighs the options and figures he has to salvage something of this situation. He lets his fingers brush at the knotted muscles of Steve’s back, reassuring. Murmurs again, “We’re safe, Steve. I’m safe. It’s okay.”

Steve’s shoulders infinitesimally relax. Bucky gently pushes at the shield, trying to get him to relax his grip before he accidentally beheads Peter fucking Parker or something. Slowly, Steve returns from the faraway place he’d gone.

Bucky squares his shoulders and tries to summon up every ounce of casual confidence he has. The only thing worse than bursting into the kitchen in front of his friends in his underwear, is to do so chasing after your new boyfriend. Who is a dead ringer for your old boyfriend.

Bucky finally, fully processes Steve’s state of dishabille.

He _Fuck! Steve!_ pushes at the shield a little more, trying to get Steve to drop it to groin height. Steve resists him for a minute, then complies. Bucky turns back.

“Sam! Everybody!”

Bucky gestures at Steve, now meekly holding the shield in front of his junk. He realizes everyone had still been talking, yelling over each other. Now they go quiet, staring at him.

Sam, grip on his own shield deceptively easy. Carol, fists glowing, hair moving around her shoulders. Kamala has stretched out one arm, her hand helpfully over Peter’s eyes, and unhelpfully not over her own. Pietro is currently not in sight, but Bucky had caught a flash of blurred light and knows he’s around. Scott, he locates up on the beams.

“This is Steve. Steven Grant Rogers, originally of...somewhere else, by way of Warzones.” Steve nods, and everyone nods back, Peter with his eyes still covered.

Bucky internally sighs. The awkwardness is so thick, it could be cut with a knife. He can feel, more than see, that Steve is slowly going red as the impact of his situation hits him. Bucky attempts to pretend that everything is normal. Everything is _fine._ He is not here, not in front of everyone in his sluttiest underwear. It’s probably? not apparent that they have spent the last night fucking their brains out.

He waits. Waits for anything to happen, for anyone to say something. Gradually, he realizes that he is the conductor of this little circus. He turns back to Steve.

“Steve….why don’t you go get dressed? Put up the shield?”

Steve looks at him, no words, eyes pleading. Bucky realizes that Steve has no plan, has come back but is lost. He leans up and brushes his lips against Steve’s cheek.

“Go get dressed, okay? I’ll put in the cinnamon rolls. We’ll have breakfast. Maybe we’ll hamstring Bruce when he gets back?”

A flicker of humor in Steve’s eyes, and then Bucky has the distinct joy of watching Steve try to figure out if he should walk backwards, shield protecting his modesty, or go out the front way, and cover his ass. A flash, and the tablecloth is neatly draped over Steve, rendering him a plaid ghost. Bucky is frowning at Pietro and Scott, who are clearly struggling not to laugh.

When Steve emerges, some of his natural good humor seems restored. Any potential freak out about Pietro’s speed aimed at him is not manifesting. After a small smile and a nod around at everyone else, Steve retreats, wrapped in the table cloth.

Steve’s door clicks closed, and almost immediately Sam is turning to Bucky.

“What the _fuck,_ Barnes?”

Bucky has decided, that whatever else might transpire, he is going to pretend things are normal, for Steve’s sake. Bucky flaps a hand at Sam.

“Later. Set the table, please, Sam.”

Sam clearly wants to ask a thousand questions, but instead he huffs and goes to find the silverware and plates, while Bucky washes his hands and retrieves the cinnamon rolls. They really should sit out for a bit before going into the oven, but he shoves them in anyway. Steve will never know.

Peter and Kamala he sends outside, to take care of the beasts. A huge bowl of eggs gets pushed into Carol’s hands, and the coffee beans into Scott’s. Detouring by the dryer, Bucky snags a pair of jeans, and shrugs into a faded red sweatshirt. Steve’s, with the way the sleeves come past his hands. Appropriately attired, he leans against the dryer for a moment. He’s panting, open mouthed, panic pushing at the edges of his brain.

Bruises. Hickies, really. Scattered on Steve’s throat, his chest, his hand where Bucky had gripped so tightly. Deep purple, livid, fresh.

Bucky, but for the grace of the serum, should have his own set. Over his hips, his thighs, high on his neck. But, he’d checked, as he’d shoved his legs into cold, wrinkled jeans. Pressed his fingers over his throat. Healed, perfect skin as usual, not even a faint shadow.

_Steve should not have those bruises, not if the new treatment had worked. Now he’s going to go out, with the Avengers. Is going to get hurt…going to get hurt..._

“Bucky?”

He startles, finding Kamala at the door.

“Yeah?”

He tries to sound casual, as though he routinely melts down in the laundry room. For Kamala’s part, she’s supporting him in this, trying to look like she didn’t just catch the Winter Soldier in said meltdown.

He’s proud of her and he can tell she wants to ask him a million questions, questions that she’d once have asked with impunity, probably in front of the whole squad.

_“Bucky! What are you doing? Are you and Steve **boyfriends**? Are those hickies? Are you contemplating your tortured past?”_

On a different day, he might have answered her.

_Panicking. Maybe...yes? And yes, forget you saw anything. Absolutely not. ___

____

____

“Scott is juggling eggs. And Pietro —”

Bucky doesn’t even wait to hear the rest. Fortunately, he arrives in time to prevent the aforementioned juggling. The rest of the Avengers are easily redirected into breakfast-related productivity, giving him enough time to retrieve Steve.

Steve, who’d clearly taken the time (unlike Bucky) to shower. His hair is damp and hanging over his shoulders. He lets Bucky braid it quickly, obligingly tipping his head. Bucky has an elastic on the end of his wrist, and it’s quick work to weave Steve’s hair into a single, long braid. He ties it off and pats at Steve’s cleanly shaven cheek. As he finishes, Steve catches at his hand.

Steve is pale, freckles standing out, and the thin lines of strain around his nose are back. “Buck. Bucky. I’m. What if. ”

Bucky remembers that Steve and Bucky had been attacked and captured in their sleep on Battleworld. That it’s been months since Steve has been around other people. In this particular group of people, there are probably those he knows as alternates. Evil ones like Sheriff Strange, maybe. It has to be stressful for him. It’s stressful for Bucky.

Bucky squeezes his fingers gently. “Everyone just wants to meet you. They’ll love you.”

_They’ll love you, they’ll see you fight, they’ll love that even more, and then they’ll take you._

So, Steve meets the Avengers.

It goes well, all things considering. There are handshakes all around, and Sam apologizes (laughingly) for coming up unexpectedly. Apparently they’d arranged it with Bruce.

Bruce who tumbles in mid breakfast, arms filled with cheese and yarn and a too big, nearly unfamiliar grin on his face.

“Good morning!”

Bruce immediately sits down at the table, reaches for a plate, and starts filling it, completely ignoring Bucky and Sam glaring daggers at him.

“Bruce! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Bruce! Why didn’t you tell them?”

Sam and Bucky talk over each other for a minute, making an excited noise not unlike the chickens. Bucky gestures at Sam to continue.

“Any particular reason you didn’t fill in your roomies ahead of time? Forced me to perceive Barnes in his skivvies?”

Sam tactfully does not mention Steve’s nudity.

“Oh! I forgot. It was a while ago,” said Bruce vaguely, mouth full.

“Bruce, that was last week.”

“No! Was it? Oh. Maybe?”

Bruce swallows, stabs another bite of cinnamon roll. He moans when he puts it in his mouth. “Oh my god, Steve, these are so good. Anyway, I did tell them.”

“Bruce!” Bucky exclaims, a little sharper than intended. “You didn’t tell us shit.” “Yeah, I texted you? Yesterday? I _had_ forgotten, but after I left, I texted you.”

Bucky extracts his phone from his pocket. Stares at the incomprehensible lines of emojis. Last night, they’d seemed like a vague endorsement of a particular extracurricular activity. Now, it seems like an equally vague warning.

“Bruce. This is not a proper way to convey important info. I don’t know how you think emojis work but —”

Steve cuts Bucky off before he can really get going and maybe fill Bruce in on exactly what the eggplant emoji had meant when paired with an eagle (clearly Steve), the metal arm (Bucky), and the entire library of heart emojis.

“I apologize for such a poor initial encounter. I awoke, and thought we were under attack. I worried that the alarms had failed. I would not normally present myself in such a manner.”

“My alarms did not _fail_ , thank you very much...”

“Sam and Carol both can disarm them,” Bruce smoothly interjects before Steve and Bucky can escalate further.

Sam nods, clears his throat. “Yeah, I shut them down. Uh, sorry, planned trip or not, I just figured that you all were busy, when no one responded.”

Steve nods graciously, while Bucky plans his escape from these people, from this polite, restrained dance.

Steve is charming, throughout. Asking questions of everyone, his natural curiosity and regard for others shining through. Telling stories of his recovery, his time on Earth. He even manages to make Battleworld sound like an adventure, and Bucky marvels that this is the same man who cried in his arms over his lost husband, who had slaughtered hundreds, who had been ready to fight naked with only his shield to protect Bucky.

Steve accepts the compliments over his cinnamon rolls, and easily fields random questions. The kinds of weapons he uses, and the kinds of creatures he has fought. Bucky doesn't listen much. They’re all charmed by him, and when they see him fight, it’ll all be over.

Bucky stays inside and goes to shower. Everyone else crowds outside to spar with Steve.

He can predict how it will go. Steve is roundly competent, as compared to the other Steve Rogers Bucky has known. A little worse, with ranged weapons. Much better in close combat. More deadly. He doesn’t hesitate or pull punches. He is freakishly fast with that axe, with most bladed weapons.

Carol will kick his ass. Sam is a tossup, but at this point, Bucky would bet on Sam. Pietro? Steve can take him. He’s fast, but so is Steve, and Steve’s reflexes are incredible. Scott, too. Kamala uses her powers effectively and competently, but her direct combat skills are coming along slowly.

Peter might be able to take Steve, as long as he doesn’t get distracted and goes for the weapons first. But, Bucky’s not going to put money on it. The kid is great in an actual combat situation, but he’s woefully distractible in sparring and the excitement of sparring with a _different_ Steve Rogers will put him over the edge. Kamala is a terrible influence, and she will bring Peter right along with her own excitement.

Anyway, Bucky doesn't need to see it. He knows Steve will impress them, knows that they could use him.

He’s right. Nearly everyone leaves in a flurry of bruises and split lips and the kind of laughing exuberance that people with no proper sense of reality have after trying to kill each other for fun.

Steve has been extended an invitation to join the Avengers, on a trial basis.

  
  
Sam lingers, and Bucky’s happy to see him, grateful for the chance to walk together to ‘check the platform’ and do other ‘security’ nonsense that is actually a chance to gossip, to catch up, and to...register his concerns.

Back in the kitchen, Sam says, “Bucky, I don’t want to be an asshole.”

Bucky looks away. Sam gestures at himself.

“No healing factor here, no super strength. Just regular old human.”

He sounds nicer about it than Bucky deserves.

“Bucky, it’s not your place to stop him. He can take on any risk he wants. Of course, if he’s anything like Steve — fuck, that’s weird.”

Sam stops to sip at his tea, wrinkling his nose. “Ugh, Bruce likes this?”

“Um, yeah, he does. A lot.” Bucky waves for Sam to go on.

Sighing, Sam does. “Bucky, you can’t stop him. If he wants to live, he’ll have to learn not to be a reckless shit, if he doesn’t know that already. You know it’s his risk to take. Some of us have powers. Some of us have healing.”

“Some of us,” Sam quirks an eyebrow, “have nothing but really cool wings and common sense. It’s enough. You can’t expect him to sideline his life in the hope that Bruce can figure something out. It might not ever be fixed. What’s he going to do?”

“I don’t know? Learn a trade? Go to college? Do something that’s not going to get him killed?”

“He might want that, someday, but it’s not what he wants now. You can help him, or get out of his way. No offense, but it’s not your call to make.”

Bucky wonders then, what Sam and Steve had talked about. What Sam had seen. Sam downs the rest of his tea. Bucky breaks one of the cookies in half, and then again.

“I want it to be my place.” Bucky keeps his eyes focused on the cookie. He counts the chocolate chips.

 _Bruce always puts in too many._ One, two, three…

“Bucky, what the _fuck_ are you up to?” Sam sounds equally amused and appalled. Bucky can feel his face turning red, hot from neck to eyebrows. He presses his metal hand to one cheek, and it comforts him.

“I _know_ it looks...weird, I know, I know, Bruce said.”

Sam makes an abortive gesture. “Oh my god, stop. I don’t want to hear it, as long as this isn’t some new self-destructive shit, and you don’t fuck with him.”

Bucky clenches his teeth. Sam had been witness to more than few of his more unfortunate activities, early on. His concerns are not entirely misplaced.

“No, uh, this isn’t anything like that.” He trails off. It’d been easier to talk about his feelings in the dark.

Sam takes pity on him. “It’s serious?”

Bucky can feel tears prickle at his eyes. He babbles some kind of confused answer at Sam, something garbled about optics and Steve, and Steve. . Something probably a little self-pitying about being lonely.

Sam takes his time destroying a cookie, crumbling it into bits, piling up the chocolate chips in a melting heap.

“It is weird, it’s never not going to be that, especially to an outside eye.” Sam presses a finger into the chocolate and then licks it.

_Gross._

“Guess there’s someone out there for everyone. Well, your guy’s been through it, and if your grumpy ass makes him happy...and if he makes you happy.”

Sam shrugs, even as his dry tone makes it clear that anyone who is satisfied, or happy, with Bucky’s company, is someone who is not particularly blessed with good sense.

Bucky can feel the tears spill over, and he sniffles, an ugly horked up sound.

“Oh, fuck. Goddammit. Come on, Bucky.” Sam pats at him, awkward. “Here, drink some tea. Don’t cry on the goddamn cookies. This isn’t some sea-salt bullshit bakery. They don’t need that. It's okay.”

He keeps patting, while Bucky keeps crying into cookies.

“I miss him, too. I miss him so much.” Sam murmurs, “But, we have to move forward. We can’t just wait around.”

Bucky nods soggily, even as he realizes Sam is talking more to himself. After, Bucky blows his nose, and Sam winces.

“Gross. Okay. I’m going to go now. The boyfriend can come up with Bruce. We need a few days to figure out housing and training.”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “He needs more conditioning. Just the little we did nearly killed him.”

“Sam, he could barely walk a few months ago,” Bucky protests feebly, feeling strangely offended on Steve’s behalf, even as he knows it’s true. This Steve might not have asthma, but the little endurance he has is hard won.

Sam waves off Bucky’s protests and studies Bucky for another minute. Bucky sniffs and attempts to look like a professional, instead of a sad man in his boyfriend’s t-shirt.

“You going to be able to manage this?”

“Yeah, Sam. Don’t worry.”

Sam stays for dinner, and it’s nice. He and Steve seem to hit it off right away, chatting in an easy, relaxed fashion. Still, Bucky can see the sadness in Sam’s eyes and the slight tension in his shoulders. Bucky knows that it can’t be easy for Sam to have this reminder of Steve in front of him.

That night, Steve comes to Bucky’s bedroom, rapping lightly before coming in, and then catching himself. Hovering awkwardly in the doorway, he waits for Bucky to sit up. Uncurling himself, Bucky jerks his head and Steve comes in.

“I apologize Bucky. I meant to tell you, sooner.”

Bucky looks down. “Bruce told me. That they were coming.”

“Ah.”

The silence hangs between them, and Bucky can’t stand it anymore, jerks his head at Steve, who comes in, perches at the edge of the bed. Bucky can feel his gut churning.

“You’re going.”

Steve frowns. “For a short time, at least. I owe them. This world. If I’m going to be of it, take of it, I should be of service.”

This, at least, is a familiar tune. Bucky laughs harshly. “You don’t owe them, owe us, shit, Steve. Help, freely given. No payment needed.”

“I want to help.” Steve rubs his feet on the rug, watches it slide across the smooth, polished wood. “It’s all I know how to do.”

“You could learn. To do something else.”

_To stay here with me._

It’s Steve’s turn to laugh, but it’s soft, sad. “I’m not ready for that. I don’t think. I barely know my own body, anymore. Barely know anything, here. I don’t even know where to start. This world is so so different. So much I haven’t seen.”

Bucky swallows. Twists his hands into the sheets, still rumpled, still scented of Steve, of the two of them.

Steve is talking. “Fighting, helping people, it’s something I know I can do, that I can do well. And, it’s selfish, but I need that. To be of help. For a little while, at least.”

Steve’s face is full of naked, raw hope, begging for Bucky to understand. Oh, he does. He does and he hates it. Wants to scream about how _dangerous_ it is, how close Steve had come to dying, before. He wants to fling himself on Steve. Wants to beg Steve to stay, to stay with him, to keep building this little life with him.

Bucky wants to ask why he’s never enough, even as he knows the question is completely irrational. They’ve never had that kind of conversation. Who is he to keep Steve back, to keep him from doing good, to keep him from helping out when Bucky himself can’t?

won’t

He is so tired of saying goodbye to Steve Rogers. He’s tired of asking. He’s tired of being left.

Steve hesitates for a long time, eyes searching Bucky’s face, and Bucky fights to keep his face neutral. To keep his eyes from going shiny.

Buck’s afraid to touch Steve, afraid he will break, will cling to him.

So instead, he tries to keep his voice light. “I go to New York, from time to time. When I can’t avoid it. And you’ll always have a home here, with me and Bruce, to come back to.”

“Will I?”

Steve very lightly touches Bucky’s hair, like he’s a fragile thing that might burst. “Will I have you to come back to? And you will come to me? If it’s not too — ”

Bucky can see Steve visibly struggling for the right word, brow crinkling.

_Inconvenient? Awful? Filled with bad memories?_

Bucky manages to find some lightness inside of him, a curve of his lips that’s somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

“Can’t get rid of me now, sweetheart.”

Steve’s gaze is hesitant, smile tentative, so Bucky lets his own slide into a smirk, lowers his voice a little and leans in, “Especially after last night.”

He lifts his eyebrows, being deliberately ridiculous, and Steve’s face goes pink. Bucky can’t help but kiss him, a light press of lips, a reassurance. 

Steve opens to him immediately, arms wrapping around his neck and the intensity of it... 

Bucky can’t make himself say the words. He doesn’t have the right ones for this confused mess in his gut and his chest. He tries to tell Steve, tries to take this moment, tries to take what he’s being offered. He puts it all into his lips, into his hands, into his breath and his body. Steve takes it all and gives it back. 

Familiar too, is the desperation and other unspoken emotions thick in the air. Bucky pushes it all down, pushes the emotions back. He loses himself in another hungry kiss, and then another, until he’s not sure where he ends and Steve begins, until he can ignore the taste of ash in his mouth. 

In the morning, Bucky helps Steve pack. 

He kisses him again. And once more, a promise bittersweet on his tongue. 

He watches Steve fold himself into Bruce’s car. Bruce, who has some sort of Avengers related business to attend to, something about energy readings and strange fish he wants to see in person. Bruce is bringing Steve along like so much extra baggage. 

Bucky watches them drive away. Tries not to think of the Pym particles he’d tried to shove into Steve’s pocket. Steve had refused, pressing them back into Bucky’s hands. Bucky can feel the weight of them in his own pocket now.

That night, he cries into his pillow until he falls asleep. 

He dreams. 

_“I’m with you to the end of the line.” ___

___Blue eyes fill with tears while ice wraps around his bones and trickles through his veins, his vision fading. _____

____Blood and ashes in the air, in his throat, warm sand under his feet. _____ _

____A clenched jaw, fingers taut, knuckles white on a briefcase, a flash of light.__ _ _

__When he wakes up, he’s wrung out and mentally exhausted. As he replays the last day, he remembers how Steve had clumsily tried to hide some of Bucky’s t-shirts, wrapping them in Steve’s much more reasonably-sized ones. Remembers how Steve’s hands had trembled as Bucky’s fingers had slid through them. He thinks of the stream of texted pictures, probably every tree and cow Steve and Bruce have driven by, that Steve has faithfully captured and sent to Bucky to appreciate._ _

__Which, Bucky does. Even as he still feels a little hurt. Sad. Worried. But also...hopeful._ _

__Bucky goes to feed the chickens and takes his own picture of the girls scrimmaging for berries. He sends it off to Blondie in his contacts list, and he can’t help the thrill of hope that goes through him at the immediate chime of a return message. He can’t help but feel like things might be okay,_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:**  
>  -Panic attacks/PTSD - Bucky has a panic attack during sex.  
> -Sub-optimal/undiscussed reassurance - Steve attempts to reassure Bucky during his panic attack. He touches Bucky's ankle/foot without permission, then waits for Bucky to guide him on touching him further in that moment. Steve's actions are not unwelcome to Bucky, but they don't communicate ahead of time. After Bucky calms down, they discuss it before resuming their encounter.   
> -Embarrassing situation - the Avengers come to visit unexpectedly, and both Steve and Bucky are caught unawares/undressed.


	12. chapter 10 - rose tint my world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve settles into life in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> fairly standard violence during battles, poor/no negotiation prior to/during sex, angry sex, biting.  
>    
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Earth 2027 - New York_

_A mirror image, slightly askew. Blue eyes staring into his own, brow furrowed in confusion._

_Steve reaches out, feels short blond hair, unstyled, soft and floppy. Smooth skin, unlined. Steve touches the uniform. Captain’s uniform. Sam’s, really. He touches the star, tracks the sharp inhale of breath, chest rising to meet him. It’s not quite Sam’s. Lighter fabric, deeper shades of blue. The shield._

_That is unmistakable. Steve can’t resist reaching out, tracing that brighter star in the center_.

_His vision lights up, glowing blue, dark stars imprinted on his eyelids. Screams rise and fill his ears._

Steve wakes up. He’s sweated right through his sheets and thrown all his blankets off. His room is cold and dark, the sun still sleeping. He’s shivering as he hunts for the blankets, feeling the hair on his legs and chest nearly stand on end with the cold. He should strip the bed and dress himself, but he’s tired, the fatigue pulling at his muscles, his eyelids heavy.

His dream. He’s unsettled by it. Nightmares a plenty he’d had on Battleworld, especially right afterward.

Steve’s shoulders and his gut tenses, the motion involuntary. He forces them to relax, one long, slow breath. He’d dreamed of Bucky’s death a thousand times, if not more. He’d never known the details, and his imagination had run wild, conjuring endless, horrible scenarios.

When he’d come to Earth, they’d faded, mostly. Still painful, but less immediate, the soft haze of time drawing over them.

Steve rolls further into his blankets, wincing as his hair gets caught under him and he has to wiggle and tug at it to get free. _Should have braided it, put it up before bed_. But he’d come home exhausted, had barely managed to feed himself and rinse the sweat and grime from his body before he’d fallen straight into bed. The dreams had started almost right away, as they had since he’d come to New York.

They feel like memories, but of a life he’s never lived.

A body he’s never lived in, thin wrists and a heart beating too fast. An unfamiliar war, and Bucky beside him, handsome ( _young_ ), hair short-cropped, carefully styled. Icy water and a dizzying blur of neon and the crack of his cheekbone under a metal fist.

Steve tosses and turns for an hour or so before he finally climbs out of bed, heading to the kitchen still wrapped in a blanket. He begins to prepare the truly enormous amount of food he needs to eat each morning to keep up with his workouts, to keep up with the Avengers. In between, he taps at his phone, reading his messages. 

He’s halfway through his breakfast, a heap of eggs and vegetables and a vat of sweet, milky coffee, when his phone begins to shrill. Sighing, he shoves his plate in the fridge, and goes to find some clothes. 

Later that morning, he’s in the new Avengers facility, a labyrinthine, mostly underground place he’s been lost in at least a half dozen times. He’s trying to finish his coffee and listen to Maria Hill brief the group at the same time. He likes Maria, likes the wry turn of her mouth, her easy competence. When she runs communications (which isn’t often), she’s unhurried, always a few steps ahead, voice smooth and easy in their ears.

Steve pulls on his gear, tries to ignore the faint buzz of his phone, the slight shake in his fingers. Fighting in a team, fighting without Bucky, without Devil, is different, harder than he’d thought. Sure, he’d done it in the war, before, but even then Bucky had been with him. That feels like several lifetimes ago, a hazy memory of gunfire and explosives, strange A.I.-driven electronic creatures he barely remembers.

Fully dressed, he goes to check his weapons. He’d flatly rejected the first tactical suit they’d offered him. Some of the armor he’d worn before had been repaired, but even so, it’s not up to battle on Earth, not against creatures with unpredictable levels of power. Steve understands that, but he still refuses to fight in pants if he doesn't have to, can’t stand the constriction around his thighs.

They’d compromised, and come back to him with a new design, and his new gear is acceptable. A heavily armored skirt, high boots, a paneled top with lightweight plates of armor sliding over his shoulders and chest, more straps and buckles than he knows what to do with. He appreciates that it’s all in nondescript shades of dark blues and black, that it’s easy to move in, and that he can attach a dizzying array of weapons to himself.

He checks the shield and his axe, slides his extra knives into their assorted sheaths. With a last check of his hair, in a tight braid close to his head, he casts a surreptitious glance and takes a quick picture. A _selfie_. He doesn’t smile, but he can feel his eyes go warm, his mouth soften. He types a quick message on his phone.

_Good morning, mission upcoming. Call when complete?_

He attaches the photo. After a half a second, he sends a second text message, a stream of emojis. Mostly the different variety of hearts the app offers up to him and a few _x’s_ and _o’s_. They are holdovers from his first life, when he’d typed on a clumsy, oversized comm. He knows Bucky hates emojis, that he’ll probably roll his eyes when he sees them, but he can’t help himself.

He can’t help the way his heart had jumped that morning when he’d read his messages, the photo Bucky had sent. It wasn’t a selfie, per se. Most of the frame had been given over to the small kitten carefully cradled in Bucky’s hands. The fur had been a dark blot against the pale blue of Bucky’s sweater, Bucky’s brown braid trailing over one shoulder. He’d saved the photo, had planned to look more carefully at his leisure, both at the tiny _adorable!_ cat, and at the hint of upturned lips, barely visible in a neatly trimmed beard. 

_Please be careful._

A second message a second later.

_< 3_

Steve can’t help his smile, but he still tucks his phone away, returning his attention to the briefing. Scott smiles across from him, and winks when Steve makes eye contact. Scott is nice, inviting him over for dinner with his family, staying late to train with him, encouraging him. Scott is younger than he is, with no superpowers beyond his admirable intellect and kindness, and those inferred by his suit.

All of them are nice, actually. He’s felt welcomed, accepted. He enjoys being a part of a team, one unlike any of his others. This team alleviates some of the loneliness and makes him feel like he has a purpose. 

The mission goes well. They’re dropped off a few miles outside of New York proper, and find the problem almost immediately. A large, smoking crater is filled with oddly oblong eggs. They’re brightly colored, speckled in an array of blues, greens, orange, with plates of irregularly shaped armor cradling them.

When they approach, the ground shudders beneath their feet as the eggs tremble and crack. Steve rests his hand on the haft of his axe, ready for a quick draw. Scott is on one shoulder, Hope on the other. Above, Sam hovers, wings spread wide, guns at the ready. Steve can feel the other Avengers around him, Peter and Pietro.

The eggs rock, long, articulated limbs emerging, followed by armored carapaces and more of the strange armor. It glows and shifts to shield large multifaceted eyes, to cover tender abdomens. When they notice the Avengers, trying to remain a good distance away, they turn in a chittering crowd. Their heads split to reveal enormous maws, filled with hooked teeth and Steve staggers as thoughts are broadcasted.

_hungry, hungry hungry so hungry eat eat now fresh meat, eat and mate and spread_

_spread spread spread_

A vision of trees torn from the ground with their bones picked clean. An endless horde, trained in the direction of more meat, always more.

Everyone is hit at the same time, and Sam’s voice crackles through the comms.

“Not friendly! These assholes are definitely _not_ friendly. Ground, proceed with caution.”

Steve can feel the barely-there weight of Scott and Hope lift from his shoulders. He unsheathes his axe, one easy movement, and the shield is in his hands.

The battle is good, so good. His muscles and reflexes are strong and responsive. He decapitates one insect in a smooth, easy movement, turning with the axe circling overhead. Then he’s swinging it across his body for the next insect, and then the next.

His axe rebounds off the next insect. Without thought, the shield flies from his fingers, slicing into the joint just below where his axe had bounced off. The insect drops.

“Their armor is hardening!”

“Everyone hear that? Move quickly, aim for the joints, and the eyes when they’re clear. Pietro, take the ones that are still hatching. Peter, bind the further out ones. _Holy shit_!”

One of the insects unfurls delicate, crumpled wings, and sways them until the wings snap to, rigid. Then it takes off, flying straight into Sam’s gunfire.

“Okay people. More urgency here. Do not let them take off. We can’t let them get to a populated area.”

The insects are still in their minds, _hungry so hungry_ and they all work faster. Steve’s blade spins so quickly he can barely keep track. The shield is flying from his hands and returning, a good, satisfying thump, dark insect blood whipping off the edge.

They’ve seen what the insects envisioned. All of them, filled with eggs ready to fly, ready to spread.

In the end, the battle doesn’t take long. For all that the insects’ wings pop out quickly and their armor hardens, they are not particularly agile. It’s easy to target their fragile joints and the hump on their backs where their wings spread free.

They burn the bodies, pulling them into the crater and pouring quick-burn chemicals over the top. There’s a fallen log nearby, and after a quick check for injuries, they all sit. They’re tired, wiping insect guts from their faces, sanitizing hands. Scott passes around bottles of water and Peter produces a plastic bin filled with brownies. They all sit on a battered log and watch the bodies of alien insects burn. Peter is babbling about something to do with the baking process,

“Ned tried to put walnuts in, but walnuts do _not_ belong in brownies. _Maybe_ , chocolate chips.”

“Ugh, Peter. Ned knows what he’s doing. A brownie isn’t worth eating, unless it has nuts in it.”

“Mr. Wilson, you’ve eaten three.”

“You callin’ Captain America a liar? I’ll have you know, I am a _beacon_ of integrity.”

“Jesus, Sam, save some for the rest of us. Is that your fourth?”

There’s a brief squabble between Sam and Scott, then a flash and Pietro reappears at the top of a tree with the entire container in his hand. Steve lets the banter wash over him, enjoys the taste of chocolate. He hasn’t baked since before he came to New York.

“Hmm?”

He comes to attention. Scott is up in the air, trying to get the brownies back from Pietro. Peter is way too invested. Hope looks like she’s trying to take a nap, or at least not perceive Scott’s behavior.

Sam is staring at him, and Steve realizes Sam’s been talking to him.

“You doing alright, Steve?”

“Hmm? Um, yes. I was just thinking.”

“Nuts or no?”

“Oh!” Steve thinks for a second. “I’m not sure, actually.”

He grins. “I think that I will need to conduct a series of experiments, brownies with nuts, brownies without, brownies with—peanut butter?” 

Sam tosses a bottle of water at him, and Steve automatically catches it. His fingers are a little too tight on the lid as he unscrews it, while his mind whirls, considering all the possible combinations of chocolate and other delicious things.

It’s strange to be around Sam. There are differences, of course. Time doesn’t mean all that much to Steve anymore, but his original Sam been older than he’d been then. That Sam had been a confident, experienced man, one who’d trained Steve patiently, unrelentingly. Steve had looked up to him. 

His original Sam had come to see Steve after his procedure. Bucky, too. All of his men. That Sam had sat with them before the procedure, carefully explaining it. Of course, the procedure had been explained to them with each consent form they’d signed, but that Sam had _had_ the serum, he’d _known_. He’d told them about the pain, told them about the changes, both the good and the bad. That Sam had been a serious man, protective and careful. To Steve, the stars and stripes and wings overhead had meant _safety_.

This Sam is younger, but Steve still trusts him. He’s quicker to smile, to joke, especially after a mission. He’s quicker to laugh, but he still takes his duties as Cap with deadly solemnity. Post Thanos, this world is a dangerous place.

Still, in this moment, Sam is smiling at him and Steve can’t help smiling back. 

“I was thinking I haven’t baked anything since I came here. Haven’t cooked much, either.”

Sam laughs. “I bet Bruce and Bucky are suffering. Their loss, our gain.”

“Oh, Bruce is skilled enough in the kitchen. But Bucky—”

Steve chuckles, remembering one of the times he’d found Bucky patiently slicing away burned bits of a truly sad piece of some unrecognizable protein. It had possibly been poultry, at one point in time.

Steve clears his throat and continues, “Bucky is a disaster. He has many skills, but cooking is not one of them.”

“No shit, man. He has tried to pass off some extremely questionable things as food. He gets assigned to bring napkins to the potlucks. Or drinks.”

They both laugh quietly and drink their water. It feels good, and Steve resolves to get back into the kitchen, to maybe invite some of his teammates over for a meal.

“You doing okay, other than living off takeout?”

Steve considers his answer. His first impulse had been to answer flippantly, but he can tell Sam means it. He answers seriously. “It’s different. Not what I expected.”

He neatly crumples the bottle of water, tucking it into his bag.

“I lived a whole life, before I was taken to Battleworld. Pretty normal. Much like this, though the tech is quite different. And then, I was a captive, or lived in a shack for years. I fought to live, while people bet on me and filmed me, and my best friend was a dinosaur.”

 _My husband died_.

“Now I’m normal again, perhaps. I’m not sure sometimes, what is real, what isn’t.”

Sam leans forward, his hands twisting together, gloved in red leather.

“I get that. I hate calling it that, but the blip?” Sam shakes his head. “Five years. I still wake up sometimes, don’t know _when_ I am.”

“Bucky. Bucky, too.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, he tell you he spent the time at the beach? You ever seen the Matrix?”

Steve frowns, not sure what he missed and Sam backtracks.

“Each of us, that got Snapped, near as I can tell, we spent the time tucked away into some weird corner of our minds. Or space?”

Sam trails off, shifting restlessly on the log. He cracks his knuckles, one by one.

“Strange has tried to explain it, but honestly, it makes my brain hurt. Either way, we _lived_ that time, but it was timeless. Weird. And sometimes our minds touched each other, somehow. Bucky went to the beach.”

“Where did you go?”

“Home.” Sam busies himself with his wings, undoing the buckles so he can shrug out of them. “Home, with Riley, my, uh, boyfriend. Parents up the street, family dinners, no war. I knew it wasn’t real, right away. All that never happened. Well.”

Sam begins to coil up the straps neatly.

“It happened, but not in that order. Riley and I were together, but our happy family dinners were few and far between, especially with my family. Our first tour, we went real early. Of course, there were no random Avengers dropping in and out, bugging my mom, borrowing shit and not returning it.”

Sam shakes his head. “Bucky. He made friends with my _Mom_. She tried to teach him to cook, not like it made any difference at all. Even as a figment of my imagination, he was hopeless.”

Sam begins to gather up the debris from their impromptu snack stop. He bellows into the trees. “Get back down here! Clean this up!”

Steve finishes wiping down his axe and comes to help.

Sam says, in an aside to Steve, “These fucking kids. Some days I feel like more like a babysitter than Captain America.”

Then an abrupt change of topic. “You miss Bucky?”

Steve is not really sure who knows that he and Bucky are in a relationship. Anyone who came up to the house, who had seen them, knows. Or at least suspects. But Sam is the only one to acknowledge it directly. Steve nods. His head is starting to ache, his braid pulled too tight, and he suddenly is aching to be home. Not in his small apartment, but _home_ , with Bucky undoing his braid, scrubbing his strong fingers over his scalp.

“Yes,” he answers softly, “I miss him.” 

Sam pats his shoulder. “Bet he misses you too.”

The trip back to HQ is uneventful, and after, Steve is exhausted. He cleans his armor and his weapons, doing a thorough job despite his fatigue. The shield is fine, but the axe...he frowns at it. The blade needs a little more care and the haft needs re-wrapping. He zips it into a case to bring it home with him. He's rarely without a weapon of some kind, but this is the one Bucky had had repaired and brought back to him. His favorite, the one that resonates with him and sings in his hands.

After official mission debriefing at HQ, he stops for bubble tea on his way home, getting the largest cup in lychee. The pearls are soft and a little chewy, and he enjoys the contrasting textures as he makes his way back to his small apartment. He makes one more stop for pizza, unable to resist the smell. 

Up the stairs, he stretches his eye wide for the retinal scan, juggling his pizza and tea in order to get a thumb pressed to the scanner. It displays an error, the moisture from his cup interfering in the scan. He scrubs at the sensor, dries his fingertips, and then presses his finger to the screen again. A flash of green light and then he’s through the door into his small apartment. 

He pats his belly absently as he unslings his axe, leaning it against the door. He shuffles his pizza and drink onto the counter. New York is not what he thought it’d be, but the food is good, _great_ , really. One his favorite parts.

Bucky would be happy, if he could see him now. Bucky was always pushing him to eat more, to put on weight. He has done that, at least. He’s still muscled, but when he looks in the mirror, he’s better padded now. His cheekbones are not so sharp, the muscles of his abs no longer so prominent, his ribs no longer in sharp relief. When he lays on the ground, his shoulder blades no longer stab into the ground and ache from the pressure.

Not being hungry is nice. It’s nice to be back to his fighting weight, or close to.

Kicking off his sneakers, Steve flops onto the couch, wincing a little when his back cracks. It doesn’t stop him from chewing on his second slice of pizza, and then his third, saving the bit with the most olives on it for last.

He closes his eyes and chews, thinking about these last few months. Yup, New York had definitely not been what he had thought it’d be. Of course, he’d mostly seen photos, watched movies from pre-Thanos, and he’d had a mental image in his own head of the booming metropolis from his own home planet. New York had been a sprawling, huge city. It’d still had plenty of people, but despite the rapid resurgence in population, there’d been an exodus too.

Alien traffic had become routine. Beings of all varieties had been doing all sorts of things. Steve had stood in line at the coffee shop the other day with a being wholly unfamiliar to him, half his height but twice as wide. Diaphanous tentacles had ringed her neck and her eyes had been huge, beautiful and luminous. When she’d had ordered an iced mocha, her voice had been just as beautiful, like ringing bells.

But for all the beings that’d shown up to vacation on Earth, or to set up shop, there’d been just as many that had shown up to wreak havoc, along with every other asshole on Earth already taking advantage of less efficient governmental oversight.

Because of that, being an Avenger is also different then Steve had expected. Steve had spent his first weeks training. He had spent hours on the treadmill, and even more learning to work with his new team. He’d been taught to use various equipment, had started first aid training. But, in his off hours, he’d been assigned one of an Avenger’s main duties, in this day and age – clean up duty. Steve had spent just as many hours clearing debris and rubble as he had in the gym. 

Post Thanos, the Avengers are scattered throughout New York and other states, all doing the same thing. Helping rebuild infrastructure and clean up. Assembling for bigger missions. Watching over their assigned neighborhoods.

When he’d not been doing all of those things, Steve had been focused on his new, personal mission of turning his Avenger standard apartment into a comfortable home.

Steve kicks his bare feet up onto the coffee table he’d refinished last week, flexing his toes with a sigh.

He’d never had much of a chance to decorate a home. First he’d been deployed, and then he’d had even less of a chance as a captive. But when he and Bucky’d had their small home in the forest, they’d taken pride in it, kept it clean. Bucky had built the furniture, carefully shaping it, and Steve had spent hours polishing it, arranging it with care. Steve had always had a good eye for color, and he’d often thought that he’d like to build a house, to build a home and select furnishings, arranging things for comfort.

He had lived like a ghost at first, making up the bed neatly, corners tucked, washing his dishes immediately and replacing them in the cabinet. Nervous of being pulled off world. Missing Bucky. Hell, all of it; he’d missed Bruce, the cabin. Questioned his choice to come here.

Regretted how he’d left Bucky, that day.

_He’d woken up and, oh, it’d been so perfect with Bucky wrapped around him and the soft sound of his breathing in his ears. Bucky had helped him pack, carefully wrapping his weapons for transport, giving him more knives than strictly necessary, and packing his bags into Bruce’s car, all while his shoulders had risen, getting higher and stiffer._

_And before Steve had swing into the car, while Bruce had carefully pretended to be absorbed in his phone, they’d stared at each other. The space between them that had collapsed so recently had opened up again, stretching into a void, an endless space. Steve had felt like he’d been falling through space again when he’d reached out, when Bucky had met him part way, and they’d clung to each other’s hands, hard and desperate._

_Steve had said, “Be well Buck.”_

_Steve had wanted to kick himself._

_“Be well.”_

_What a fucking trite thing to say. What a thing, after they’d opened their bodies to each other, shared themselves. Shared laughter, and pleasure, and sorrow._

He’d wanted to take it back, immediately, but Bucky’s eyes had shuttered, looking hurt, and Steve had had to go. He’d been lucky though. Bucky had seemed to forgive him, had been in touch ever sense Steve left. Bucky had sent text messages, and pictures from his day, and Steve had responded in kind with regular phone calls, but the absence of Bucky had continued to be a great, fierce ache in his chest.

Steve had realized though, on one of their calls, that he hadn’t been truly trying. Bucky had asked about his apartment, if he needed anything, if he’d settled in. And Steve had taken some photos to send, just as he'd sent photos of his neighborhood, his commute, the sunset. But, when he’d scrolled through them, he’d paused. They did not paint the picture he’d been trying to portray, of a man, who had found his way, learned to be independent in this strange new world.

His camera roll had betrayed bare walls, empty counters, a single, sad Avengers issued towel. Steve’s bag, that he hadn’t bothered to unpack. He’d deflected, rather than send the picture

_It’s comfortable. He misses Bucky. It’s nothing like home._

Not strictly lies, not strictly the truth. He’d resolved to try harder.

When he’d found a bookshelf, he’d taken it as a sign. It’d been left abandoned on a corner, stained by the elements. Steve had noticed it on his way into the training facility, and it’d still been there on his way back, a couple of empty paper coffee cups on the lower shelves. Steve had hefted it, assessing.

It’d been made of fairly solid wood, middle shelf missing, scarred on the sides.

A bit like him.

Once he’d had that thought, _shit_. Steve had hefted it over his head, walked it all the way home. He’d needed help to get it up the stairs. He’s strong enough, but navigating the stairwell without taking out half the corners had been beyond him.

He’d procrastinated a little over who to call, standing outside his apartment building, hovering protectively in front of the book case and glaring at anyone who might want to deposit more trash on it. Sam had given him his phone number, had made him promise to call with any concerns, anything at all but somehow that hadn’t seemed right.

It’d still seemed wrong to call Captain America to help you move furniture, but Steve had known Scott had been out of town with his family. Scott’s had been the only other phone number he’d had for someone who’d invited personal contact outside of the missions.

Bruce had gone back to the Cabin and Bucky hadn’t been due to visit.

So, half cringing, Steve had called Sam, who had somehow been not busy, and who had showed up thirty minutes later with a six pack of beer, casually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

He’d raised his eyebrows at the rough looking bookshelf.

“Already asking for help with moving? I’m the wing friend, not the truck friend.”

Still, he’d cheerfully supervised Steve, who’d carefully dragged the bookshelf up each flight of stairs. Afterward, he’d cracked open two beers while Steve had made sandwiches.

>

It’d been a good afternoon. They’d drunk beer, and chatted easily, about nothing in particular. The afternoon had faded, the room gone dark. Sam’d been easy to talk to, offering up endless stories. He’d seemed to sense what Steve had most wanted to hear. Stories about Bucky and Bruce, the Avengers he’d met. Steve hadn’t been familiar with how dances for young people had differed here, but he’d laughed until he’d held his sides at Bucky getting roped into being a chaperone

At the end, Sam’d stood, and stretched, and looked around. “You should decorate a little in here. Clean up that bookshelf before you put anything on it, though.”

It’d been nice, a good afternoon, and it had gone a way towards easing some of Steve’s natural awe of Captain America. He’d found an old sheet and scrubbed the entire bookshelf down.

< The next few days had been quiet, just training in the morning. After a successful trip to a hardware store, Steve had spent the extra time with his bookshelf. It had taken many, many more steps than he’d anticipated to make it over, and he’d slept with his windows open more than one night to keep from asphyxiation. Finally, it’d been finished – stained a soft, dark black. He hadn’t been able to sand out all the scars, and he’d decorated those with gold paint, before he’d finished with a clear coat. 

Still on the couch, Steve opens his eyes and stares at the refinished bookshelf, remembering the days after he’d finished it. How he’d admired his work in the soft morning glow, how proud he’d been to send the pictures to Bucky. How satisfying it had been to put his own books on the shelf. He’d smiled the entire time he’d talked to Bucky that afternoon, detailing the entire process in more detail than Bucky had probably wished to know, but Bucky had bee properly appreciative of his work, and by the time he’d hung up, his cheeks had hurt and his stomach had been growling. That afternoon, he’d gone out to buy flour, sugar, yeast, all the ingredients for cinnamon rolls.

He’d gone a touch overboard from that point on, if truth be told. Buoyed by his success with the bookshelf, he’d salvaged more furniture, enough to fill the space, replacing most of the standard issue stuff. He’d known he couldn’t do much with the layout; the walls are what they are.

With his new knowledge of the internet and his newly flush bank account, courtesy of having an income, he’d started shopping to supplement his furniture. He’d been acutely aware that everything he had, had been given to him by Bucky, or the Avengers. He hadn’t had much on Battleworld either, but money hadn’t meant much there. Still, he’d been embarrassed to know he was dependent, without means of his own.

He'd ordered soft, colorful sheets and towels and dishcloths. Books, mostly cookbooks, but novels too. 

Sam had taken him out to one of the open-air markets, irrepressible life in some of the demolished areas.

Steve had been overwhelmed. He'd purchased soft, woven blankets, brilliantly colored ones that remind him of Devil, of sunrises over golden sand. Another, a soft cloudy gray with muted shades of blue. A large jar of honey, a half a dozen wedges of cheese, and fruits and vegetables he’d never seen. He’d bought prints too, abstract brights and reproductions of various dinosaurs and assorted animals.

Afterward, he and Sam had eaten tacos, with savory falling-apart meat, bright cilantro, and salsa that had made his mouth burn. He’d tried horchata, savoring the cinnamon-sweet taste and the soothing contrast against the fire in his mouth.

He’d learned to use the printer at Avengers facility, and had endured Scott’s gentle teasing when he’d caught him printing off his photos. Snapshots of Bucky napping on the couch, taken on the sly. Bucky gently re-potting plants, his hands covered in soil and a soft smile on his face. Photos of the chickens, the forest in the morning, the dock at night. Even one of Bruce, dreamy and contented as he stares into his ever-present tea.

He’d spent an entire afternoon in a kitchen supply shop, and had come home with baking dishes and cookie sheets in an assortment of sizes and shapes, and a whole pile of tools he’d seen on the internet. He’d spent that evening carefully reorganizing his kitchen, dividing his new tools into various drawers. The recipes he’d also printed on the sly at Avengers HQ had been meticulously placed into a three ring binder.

It had felt good to fill his apartment, to send Bucky updates of what he’d done. He understood now, the jokes about retail therapy. Understood even better how no amount of physical comfort could account for the ache of missing someone who isn’t there.

When he baked, he’d wonder if Bucky would like those particular flavors, and he’d bought books that he thought Bucky might enjoy, and he’d imagined Bucky in his bed and sprawled on his couch. Imagined Bucky, sleep tousled and cranky over his coffee in the morning, but all of his imaginings were a poor comfort when he came home to an empty apartment and cursed his pride.

Still, even with the loneliness that takes him unexpectedly, it _does_ help to have a comfortable place, a sanctuary, and it has accommodated the other things he’d started to need. The large first aid kit he’d been given, left out more often than not, and refilled frequently. The Epsom salts and the arnica. The athletic tape he’s started to use under his armor, on his shoulder that won’t stop cracking, on the knee that had taken a bad blow from over-sized space rabbit with a mean kick. (He’d managed to capture the rabbit, which had been extremely stressed out, and after some leg work, _heh,_ he’d found its family, Kylorians new to the planet and desperate to find their much loved bunny. It’d been one of his best missions, despite how long his knee had ached after)

Hot packs, cold packs, and anti-inflammatories.

Because once he’s started training more intensely, going back into combat slowly, surely, he’s started burning through whatever Bruce had fixed him with. Adrenaline has seemed to accelerate the loss. At first, he’d attributed it to his age. He isn’t a spring chicken, serum or no. But, then, it’s been combat, for sure, fighting and training.

Now, pizza gone, Steve gets off the couch and sheds his clothes, tossing his shorts and his t shirt onto the bed to be dealt with later. He’d discarded his cap at the door. Couldn’t wait to get the thing off his head. He fidgets while the bath fills, and then, only then, does he swipe open his phone, hit _call_.

Smiles as he sinks into the hot, steamy water and hears Bucky’s voice on the other line, deep and soft, like warm smoke in his ears. Buck’s not the most talkative, communicating more with his eyes, the angle of his shoulders and the curve of his lips, but he tries. He seems to sense how much Steve wants to hear his voice, to have that connection.

That day’s call is extra good. Bucky is suitably disgusted by Steve’s rendition of the insect battle and their funeral pyre after, even more disgusted that they all sat around and ate pastries while they burned. It hadn’t seemed weird at the time, but after listening to Bucky retch, Steve can allow it was a little strange. That doesn’t seem to make a difference to Bucky, no matter how many times he insists he washed his hands.

After, as Steve’s wrapping himself into his sheets and curling up for a nap, Bucky switches on the video camera, shows him the new kitten. It gently presses one tiny, pink paw to the screen and Steve groans, overcome.

“Buck! She’s so small! Is her fur soft?”

Bucky picks the kitten back up, presses a cheek to soft fur as the kitten mews and smacks at the phone.

“So soft, Steve. You’ll have to come ho—come back up here, soon. Before she gets too big.”

Steve‘s heart feels like it’s going to burst, but instead he laughs as the kitten tangles its paws into Bucky’s beard, causing him to wince.

“I’d love to. I can see if I can take leave soon. Or, maybe you can come, anyway?”

He hasn’t asked, before. Hadn’t hinted, or suggested, and now it’s tumbled right out of his mouth. Clumsy. It’s out now, though, hanging between them, and Steve can’t help but hold his breath, waiting for the response. He quells the urge to jump in, to smooth it away.

Bucky’s voice is quiet, tentative. “I don’t love coming up there. It’s—”

“I know, I know. You don’t have to.” Steve does know. 

“I want to. I want to see you.”

Steve waits. He doesn’t want to push, either way. He thinks about asking for leave.

“Maybe it’ll be better, with you.” Steve’s heart jumps _Bucky! Here with him_.

“Ack! Knock it off!” Bucky puts the kitten down when it starts biting his hair. “You can name this little fucker. I’ll come up, I don’t know when, I have some stuff to do for Bruce.” Bucky sighs. “Actually, I’d been meaning to tell you, I might be out of contact. Don’t worry, okay?”

“It’s not dangerous?”

“Mm, as dangerous as anything. Nothing like your day to day.”

And the rest of the call is like that, daily minutiae. Steve’s heart jumps with excitement though, and he knows he’s grinning foolishly at the phone when they finally hang up. He’s not due for leave for some time, and he _misses_ Bucky terribly. 

Bucky had come up once before, after Steve’s first mission. It’d been a bad one. They’d arrived too late, and the rescue efforts…nothing Steve had done prior had prepared him for it. Bucky had dropped everything to come to him, to comfort him and sooth him, and then had disappeared back through a portal, leaving Steve warm and clean.

And Steve knows it’s selfish, but he just wants to see Bucky so badly, to see him here. But being here, in New York, around the other Avengers, is an issue.

It’s been difficult, at times. Bucky is clearly well liked, spoken of affectionately, and his work with Bruce is valued. The slots to sign up and train with him fill up quickly. His trips back in time are spoken of with awe. Though Bucky had only vaguely referenced them, apparently no one else has ever made so many, has traveled so far without coming apart at their seams.

All this aside, it’s clear to Steve that Bucky’s time in New York, that brief time he’d been in the Avengers, had been challenging for Bucky. It’d been riddled with grief, with pain. He’d struggled terribly. Steve had heard more than one story, originally intended to amuse, ending half admiringly, half pityingly.

Bucky had joked before about being thrown out of the Avengers. Steve realizes now that Bucky’s words had not been entirely in jest, that his tongue in cheek remarks had some truth to them. Still, if anyone addresses Bucky in such a way, he will grind their face into the dirt. Or rip their tongues from their head. Though he is sure such behavior would embarrass Bucky more than please him.

As promised, Bucky is largely out of contact for the next weeks, and Steve keeps busy. There is always plenty of work for an Avenger to do, and he’s not recovering as quickly as he used to. 

One afternoon, he's at HQ, and in a particular amount of agony that day. The previous night had been a long, busy patrol shift, and Steve is supposed to do conditioning. However, he is certain that if he has to spend any more time on the treadmill, or punch any more bags, he will (probably) expire.

Instead, he wanders, exploring, thinking of having lunch early. The Avengers compound is labyrinthine, sprawling for miles underground. He’d found himself in a corner he’d never been in before, a living museum of sorts. A tribute. 

She had found him there.

He'd wandered around the small, dimly lit room, taking in each exhibit lit in a small pool of golden light, trailing a finger over each label. The old Cap costume, the one his counterpart hard worn, was torn and battered. No shield. That had disappeared into time with him. The one Sam carries, it’s from his other counterpart. Other bits and pieces of uniforms

He’d felt a rush of air, coolness at the back of his neck. When he’d turned, she’d melted in from the shadows, ghostly and fading at the edges. He recognizes her right away, _knows_ her, despite never having met her before.

Long black hair, tangled with braids, intense eyes. As Steve meets her gaze red swirls dissipate in the depths of her honey-brown eyes.

“Steve. I’ve wanted to meet you, for some time now.”

Her voice echoes around him, drills into his brain, and he wants to cover his ears. He knows it’s futile, that she can reach past any defense he can muster.

_He’s falling, arms outstretched, endless_

_Cradling a cool metal arm to his chest_

_Smoke stinging his eyes, his lungs_

Cool fingers pressed to his jaw. He’s blinking, disoriented, heart racing.

“Sorry, Steve. I’m having a little difficulty remaining here, remaining _now_.”

Her lips are painted, a deep purple, her teeth white.

“Wanda?”

“Hm. Yes?”

She taps at his jaw again, and he feels the muscles go slack, feels a faint click in his jaw. She doesn’t wait for him to answer.

“Steve. I do not appreciate being used as an errand girl, and I had wanted to speak to you of Bucky, but Strange wants to see you. Will you come?” Wanda asks.

Steve looks at her closely. Despite the worn look of her skin, the shadows under her eyes and her hollow cheeks, she looks terribly young. Red tendrils scroll on her skin, wrap around her throat and her chin and then fade, only to reappear over her temple and wrap around her wrist.

It is terribly distracting, but Steve is not one to be deterred easily.

“What about Bucky?”

“He stays away for so long, and then his legend becomes larger than the man. It’s easy to forget that he’s still just a man. They were both just men.”

Wanda shuffles her feet, pushes a shadow away with one toe. Steve watches it bounce across the opposite wall and slowly slide back. The hollow tone of her voice fades, and she sounds more like her age.

“It was really hard for him. Poor Bucky. He suffered terribly. His mind.” Shaking her head, she continues. “I hadn’t looked in on him, recently, but he had been doing better, was much happier. In any event, what does perception matter, when it is that of a group doomed to crumple, again and again?”

Steve nods, bemused. It clarifies little for him. He’d already known Bucky had suffered. He’s preparing to ask more, direct questions when Wanda interrupts his thoughts.

“My time grows short, and I have much to do.” Wanda says briskly, “Will you go?”

Steve hesitates, because he does not wish to see Strange. Even knowing this Strange is nothing like Sheriff Strange, he still does not care for the man. Still, he has questions for the man.

When red opens up around Wanda, lighting the dim room, he steels himself. He is grateful his axe is on his back, incongruous against his exercise clothes.

As she turns, he can see faded red at the ends of her hair. The tattered ends of her dress are funeral black, and nevertheless he follows her into the glowing red.

The meeting is interesting. Steve steps through the glowing red light, into a dim, ornate waiting room. He follows Wanda up endless flights of twisting stairs, trails his fingers over the carved banister. He tries not to notice that her feet never quite touch the ground, that his muscles are more fatigued then they should be as they turn around yet another flight of stairs.

Strange is not as nearly as unpleasant as he remembers. Then again, it would be difficult to reach the same intensity of emotion as one has as awakening mid-surgery, one performed by a hated enemy. 

His voice is still hard, cold. He’s casually dressed in a worn sweater and jeans, lounging in a wide chair.

“Come in, Mr. Rogers, do not linger outside my door, scuffing my floor.”

Steve obeys, eyes going wide at the sheer number of books surrounding him, at the huge skylight with stars and moons from unearthly galaxies slowly turning in eternal celestial clockwork.

“Sit down, please. I have no desire to strain my neck at your great height.”

Steve sits, awkwardly.

“How tall are you, by the by? You are certainly more imposing, physically, than any of other Captain Americas we’ve had trolling around.”

Steve stiffens, offended. He knows that trolling is not a positive description.

“I have never carried that title, _sir_ , and I cannot imagine that any of my actions, or those of my counterparts, can be interpreted as _trolling_.”

Strange narrows his eyes at him. “Doctor, if you please.”

Steve stares back, taking care to make his smile bland, neutral.

“Very well, _Steven_ , may I call you that? Yes?”

Steve nods, and Strange produces tea with a flourish. Finally, after an hour of eating small cookies and drinking fragrant tea in tiny cups, he gets to the point.

“Your serum is failing again, is it not?”

Steve chokes on his tea. The red cloak he’d nearly forgotten helpfully flies over, flailing at him. He coughs it down in sheer terror.

He’d suspected, but he’d done well enough at his first physical, and then at his second. Especially when he’d realized how much had been done to fix him up, how difficult had been for the minds behind the treatments Bruce had administered. He’d hoped it’d been age, maybe. He feels every one of his years. He’s not old, exactly, but he’s not young and he feels of the weight of his life, here and now.

Lingering muscle soreness, even after gentle training. Bruises. A headache he can’t seem to shake. All the hot baths, long naps, and painkillers and still his limbs are dull, heavy, old injuries eating at him.

Steve hadn’t wanted to believe. Now he sighs, and nods, and Strange clicks his tongue.

“I suspected as much. Does Bruce know?”

“I haven’t seen him. I wasn’t sure, not yet.”

“Yes, well. I had a hand, in the development of your treatment. And I had worried that it would fade with time, but this is even faster than I had anticipated.”

That is not a surprise. Bruce had told him as much. But Steve had hoped.

Strange looks at his tea. “I hadn’t wanted to do this. The chance of success had been so minimal. We may as well have not even…”

“Strange!” Steve snaps.

Strange comes to him. The otherworldly glow that hangs about him fades and Steve stares at scarred, shaking hands, and then he understands.

He understands, but he can’t make it happens for himself. They spend that entire day at it. Strange makes a big show of looking Steve over, in exhaustive detail, and then declaring him, “In perfect health, if somewhat _less_ super than intended.”

And they carry on with the magic instruction, Strange reasoning that if Steve can, “Harness the powers of the universe” he might be able to heal himself, to keep himself healthy.

Wanda had disappeared, nearly as soon as Steve had laid eyes on Strange. She does not reappear. Strange waves Steve off when he asks, muttering about being between dimensions.

Even without her guidance, Steve finds himself in Strange’s library several times a week, trying to master the mystical arts.

It is not a success.

Strange _does_ try, he does explain. Again and again, he guides Steve through various patterns, assigns him reading, shocks him out of his body. Despite it all, Steve proves to be, “Remarkably inept at the mystical arts.”

Strange even creates a talisman for him, which Steve is even more clumsy with, if such a thing is possible. In the end, they both decide to abandon the lessons.

That day, there is whiskey instead of tea in the small glasses, and it’s strong enough that even Steve can feel it dancing in his belly, making his muscles warm and pliant.

Steve does ask, hesitantly, about staying on Earth. He’s relaxed again, slightly. He’s gone to sleep, woken up, and remained on Earth for months now, but it still haunts him. He circles around to it, asking first about his counterpart. Not Bucky’s Steve, the man lost in time, but the other one.

“The other Captain? He went by Grant, while he was here.”

“He’s not here anymore?”

Steve knows it’s a foolish question. He cannot imagine he wouldn’t have run into the man, that they wouldn’t have met, somehow, were they both in the same place, the same time.

“He was pulled back. I assume, to his own time, but…” Strange shrugs. His cheeks are faintly pink, and his hair is mussed.

“He could be anywhere, in any time. Who is to say?”

“How long?”

Strange shrugs again. “A few months? Maybe more? He came, he passed the shield, he spent some time with Sam, and then, one morning he was gone. He didn’t want to stay, particularly. He came out of obligation, a promise made years prior. But he was out of his time, and uncomfortable with it.”

Strange goes on, seemingly content to ramble as he stares into the fire and sips at his whiskey.

“He’s hardly been our only visitor, other than you. He stayed the longest. Out of need, I’m sure. The rest pop in and stay for a week or maybe two. Then something pulls them, and back they go. The uncontrolled sliding through time, versus what we manufacture with the particles, is very different, very _interesting._ Bruce had been working on it.”

He points at Steve with his cup, snorting when whisky sloshes over the edge. “When _you_ showed up”

Steve just blurts it out. “I _do_ want to stay.”

He closes his eyes, unable to look at Strange, and whispers, “I’m desperate for it. I wake up, afraid, clutching the sheets. Each moment.”

_could be his last_

Strange, usually so quick to answer, is silent. For a long time, he stares at Steve. The stone around his neck glows faintly, reflected in his eyes. Steve feels like he might fall in, fall right through to another world, a shifting place without time.

“There _is_ a solution, one that will keep you here, keep you secure for an eternity. But it’s not something you are ready for, not yet. You will have to continue, in this uncertain existence, until the balance of your soul shifts.”

Steve feels his face fall, tears threatening. His emotions are surface level, rising without provocation.

Strange softens, infinitesimally, and he leans forward, resting a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve wants to shrug it off, wants to storm out, but this moment is between them. This day, and the prior lessons, are a fragile peace, offered tentatively, and he cannot crush this, no matter how he aches to scream and yell his disappointment. He senses it is not easily offered, and knows that Dr. Strange, for all his cold mannerisms, his aloofness, has done nothing but help.

After Steve leaves, he calls Bucky. He gets voicemail, but he leaves a grumbly message about Strange anyways. He says nothing about his own ongoing fear or about Strange’s confusing words. He says nothing about the healing factor, though that doesn’t feel right. Steve clenches the small phone in his grip, and he says none of it, longing for the sound of Bucky’s quiet breath on the other line.

That night, he tosses and turns in bed. He has to fight the urge to call Bucky back, leave another message and confess everything, but he doesn’t. 

Steve continues to feel wrong about it concealing his problems, reluctant to ask for even more help than he's received. But, he continues on. Until he gets a black eye and then runs headlong into Bruce the next day at HQ. Bruce stares at him for a few seconds before hauling him into an office.

“Steve, buddy. What’s going on?”

Steve gestures helplessly at his face, at the large bruise blackening his eye and stretching down over his swollen jaw and his throat. He’d iced it and applied heat, had rubbed arnica into it while cursing his utter clumsiness in getting clipped. Despite the shield, he’s terrible with range weapons. He does his best in close combat, which unfortunately results in the most injuries.

Bruce shoves him against a table. He sits, obedient, while Bruce examines him. Bruce’s hands move over him with practiced familiarity. Steve can feel himself relax ever so slightly, the pressure in his chest easing as Bruce checks his pulse and his reflexes. Bruce even produces a tiny flashlight.

“Burning through it?”

Steve nods, helplessly.

“I was afraid this would happen. Does Strange know? Never mind, of course he does, that asshole. I’ll call him. I think we can do it again or at least boost it up a bit. But Steve, I don’t know how much we can keep doing it, how much your body will tolerate.”

Bruce hesitates. “Steve, have you thought more about going back?”

Steve remembers the first time Bruce had pitched this.

_They’d been in the woods. Bruce had shown him the Pym Platform, had explained to him how it worked. Then he’d produced a vial from his pocket. The liquid inside had shone, clear and green, and Bruce had turned it over, watching a bubble slowly rise to the top and burst. His fingers had been large, green, and clenched tight. Bruce had carefully set it between the two of them, on the edge of the platform._

_“If you want to go back.”_

_He’d jerked his chin at the vial, so small._

_Steve had recoiled, pulling his fingers back._

_Bruce smiled, wry. “It has to be activated. Your blood will do. Hell, probably any body fluids. It’s not quite like what we’ve used before to time travel. That takes some specificity, something to link onto._

_“With this, you are the anchor, the catalyst. It will rise to you, pull you back through to where you belong.”_

_“Battleworld?”_

_“I can’t say for sure, but, probably, yes. Your body has adapted to being there. I think that’s why I can’t fix you. We just can’t match the levels of gamma here, simulate the same environment. If you go back…”_

_“I’d be healed?”_

_“Again, just speculation. But, Steve.”_

_Steve had looked into Bruce’s eyes, seen the seriousness in them._

_“Probably, yes. I know you weren’t taking good care of yourself before, and you weren’t healing well. But that will happen with any of us. Something about being here, about this planet, about coming through. Hell, maybe traveling when you were in a weakened state had an effect.”_

_Bruce taps the vial. It bubbles slightly. “This’ll take you back though. Probably fix you up.”_

_“I don’t want—” Steve had cut himself off, started again. “Could I come back?”_

_“Maybe? The same thing would probably happen again, maybe more slowly since you’re better in shape now, but it’d happen. That, I’m sure of. You aren’t a creature of this place. But.”_

_Bruce laughed dryly and gestured with his arm, the scarred one, the one he’d used to wield the infinity stones._

_“I think you could probably could handle the gauntlet, as well as I could. It’s regular old Earth here that’s breaking you apart.”_

_Steve nods, mind busy with ‘what-ifs’ and ‘could-bes’._

_Bruce picks up the vial and tucks into Steve’s pocket, into the one right over his chest. “Just think about it?”_

_In the end, Steve had had gray eyes in his mind. Like always, they’d dictated his heart, dictated his actions. He’d mulled it over all night, and in the morning, he’d kissed Bucky. Bucky Barnes of Planet Earth, under the bright sun, with hair gleaming mahogany in the light. He’d kissed Bucky, and drunk in the soft sound he’d made and the feel of his lips. Afterward, he’d shared some of his own secrets, and he’d been gifted some of Bucky’s._

_He’d shoved the vial of softly glowing green liquid into his drawer to be forgotten._

His mind has not changed since then. Steve sets his jaw. “No, Bruce. Help me? Please?”

Bruce sighs, but tries to help. Nevertheless, the serum keeps burning, active as he is. It gets harder, each day, but he keeps on.

It’s a surprise, when Bucky finally comes again. Steve has finally gotten to the point where he stops checking his phone.

He’d had a long day, had come home late, stopping only for takeout. Indian this time, he feels like he needs naan and a lot of it. He’d had to stop on the landing and breathe for a second, before going up the rest of the way.

The whirr of the scanner, the press of his thumb and then he’s inside. It’s dark, like he’d left it, but there are markers, subtle ones. His shoes by the door are in slight disarray, the little dish of coins and odds and ends slightly disturbed. A feeling, a weight in the air.

He has the shield with him today. He’d wanted to paint it and spend some extra time sharpening the edges. Carefully, he slides it out of the harness, willing his sneakers not to squeak.

Step, step, step, and a dark shape, silhouetted against his window. Steve tenses, readies his arm and then relaxes as a familiar scent hits him, spicy and clean, with hints of oil, dirt, and chocolate?

“Bucky? Did you eat that chocolate? It was for…”

The light flicks on and he trails off, eyes wide. Bucky at home is usually soft and comfortable. He wears clothes that are easy to work in and close to his body.

Not now. His heavy black boots are well worn. His dark jeans are well fitting but looser than his wont. His shirt is black and the leather jacket is clearly tailored. As Bucky slides his hands out of his pockets, Steve glimpses a harness and sees how Bucky’s clothing hangs to cover it, hiding the weapons. Gloves cover his hands and his hair is pulled back, clean and sharp.

Then Bucky smiles at him, a little shyly. His Bucky again, not the cold stranger.

“I had a few hours. I missed…”

It hangs in the air, suspended. Like when Steve gets impatient, and dumps the flour in all at once, and it flies into the air. A cloud that settles, slowly, filling his lungs and covering his shirt.

_I missed your baking. I missed the taste of it, the taste of you. I missed you._

They collide together, drawn irresistibly together. Bucky stops him just in time, a restraining hand to his shoulder.

“Hey, hey wait up. Just a minute.”

He’s fumbling at his jacket, unzipping it, and then Steve nearly sits down on the ground. The noise that comes out of him isn’t particularly dignified, and he is grateful Bucky is the only one here to hear it. Bucky and the kitten.

“Oh, Bucky. She’s beautiful.”

The beauty in question, the not-quite-as-tiny black kitten hisses at him, mouth opening in a feral pink smile. Steve laughs and offers a single fingertip.

She’s suspicious for a bit, especially when Bucky deposits her on the couch and goes out to get her things. But Steve is nothing if not persistent and by the time Bucky returns, arms loaded down, they’ve made friends.

“I had to park so far away. You’d think with half the city abandoned, parking would be better.”

The kitten is curled in Steve’s chest, purring. He gently explores her, touching tiny paws and stroking her whiskers. She’s missing half of them.

He looks up in question, and Bucky grimaces.

"She's kind of an asshole, menaced the shit out of her littermates. I think they bit off her whiskers in some kind of feline revenge scheme. They'll grow back. I didn’t want you to miss her being small, entirely. They grow so fast."

Bucky begins to set down the packages. One of the first is a plant, like the one in Bucky’s bedroom, but a different pot.

“It’s like mine, it’s easy to take care of. I thought you might like some greenery. But, oh.”

Bucky trails off while Steve kicks his feet up, enjoying the barely-there weight on his chest, the soft purrs, the _oh_ needle-sharp claws kneading his chest.

Bucky explores. The plant he puts in the bedroom, explaining,

“It likes the dark.”

A small cat tray goes in the bathroom, food and water near the kitchen cabinets. Bucky puts his own bag in the bedroom with the plant. He puts the takeout away. 

Steve watches, hopeful. It looks like he’s going to stay a while, him and the baby. Steve’s heart is pounding in his chest. Then it’s pounding for a different reason, because as Bucky prowls through his space, his shoulders get tighter and tighter, face going smooth and cold.

Steve can’t imagine what’s wrong, what Bucky sees.

_shit_

Bucky drifts to a stop in the center of the room. “Steve.”

His voice is low, with a hint a of a growl.

Steve swallows. “Yes?”

“What is all this shit?”

Bucky’s voice stays remarkably steady, though Steve can hear the rage underneath, the rage and the _fear._ He can see Bucky’s hand tremble as he pushes at the first aid kit that Steve had left open with bandages spiraling out. The industrial sized arnica jar is half empty and the pile of ice packs hadn’t been put back into the freezer.

Unthinking Steve touches his side, remembering the bruise there, the one that wraps around his ribs.

“Let me put the baby down.”

Steve gets up and carefully deposits the kitten on a clean towel in the bathroom, with one of the toys Bucky had tossed at him. He carefully shuts the door behind him, a deep breath in, eyes squeezing shut for a just a minute.

He’s barely in the living room before Bucky is on him. _so fast_ He realizes Bucky had been playing with him, when they’d sparred before. Despite the heavy boots, the creak of leather, Steve can barely move. He barely has time to tense as Bucky grips his hip, hard, and yanks at the neck of his t-shirt.

Kisses over his face, the edge of his mouth and at his jaw, his mouth hard, punishing.

“Ahh! Oh, _fuck,_ Bucky,” Steve moans, shocked when Bucky kisses his throat and slides his lips down, a wet tongue sliding over his pulse and then a hard, bruising bite. A second kiss and Steve is suddenly, embarrassingly hard, even as he knows.

Bucky lifts his head and looks Steve in the eye. Steve’s face is burning and Bucky’s cheeks are pink, but his eyes are sad. He tugs again at the neck of Steve’s t-shirt and a cool metal finger plays over the damp skin, stinging as he presses. Keeps pressing until Steve hisses, eyes fluttering shut. Bucky’s voice calls him back. 

“Steve, is this gonna bruise up?” Steve can’t tear his gaze away from Bucky. Unwillingly, he nods.

Bucky eases up, suddenly.

“I wonder.” Bucky’s tone is carefully blank. “Is it still going to be here, in the morning?”

He nips at Steve again, hard, under his jaw. “You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”

Steve bursts out, “I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry?”

Another bite, and then a quick, gentle lick. A subconscious apology.

“I don’t know, Steve. Are you sorry that you hid this, or sorry I caught you? Sorry you keep going out there, _knowing full well your damn healing factor is nonexistent?_ Does your team know?”

Steve shakes his head, wordless, and Bucky _growls,_ dragging at his hand, pulling at him. Steve goes, following him into the bedroom. He lets Bucky push him onto the bed and pull off his shorts, tear at his t-shirt. Bucky pauses then, panting harshly, and gripping the fabric. His head hangs low, hair coming out of his bun, hiding his face.

Steve pushes up on his elbows. “Buck?”

Bucky doesn’t respond, shoulders shaking and Steve can hear him, see his fists gripping, flexing. Steve lets his head fall back. Spreads his legs just a bit wider. An invitation.

“Come on, Buck. Come here.”

When Bucky raises his head, his eyes are red and his face blotchy, his jaw set. He’s on Steve again in a flash, not even bothering to remove his boots. Something in Steve thrills to feel the brush of leather and cotton against him, to feel the hard metal of Bucky’s belt buckle against the tender flesh of his belly. 

Bucky’s still pissed. But he’s hard, too, straining against his jeans. When Steve reaches for him, wrapping his arms around Bucky's neck, he can feel Bucky's mood shift. Still rough, but the hot rage is gone, dissipated. Steve has regrets, sort of, for his secrets, but Bucky’s lighting him up, filling him with apprehension and eager anticipation as Bucky handles him.

Steve opens eagerly when Bucky kisses him hard, plundering his mouth. Sucking kisses to Steve’s jaw, his shoulders, and his chest. Bucky’s grinding hard against him, the denim scratching at his skin and _fuck_ Steve can’t stop the helpless movements of his hips, the needy sounds coming out of him, the desperate cry when Bucky pushes off him. He’s left aching, stretched out and hard.

Bucky swallows hard, and his gaze is hungry as he rakes it up and down Steve’s body, pinning him in place.

Steve wonders at the picture he makes. Bruised up, yeah, the big one over his side. His neck is a mess from Bucky’s attention and his cock is too, drooling onto his stomach, a continuous stream of pre-come that should embarrass Steve, but doesn't.

All he can do is moan as Bucky slides out of his leather jacket, slowly, deliberately. He hangs it over the chair. He’d already removed his gloves, earlier, but he takes them out of his pocket now, neatly folds them together. Bucky unlaces his boots one by one, before setting them to the side.

He unbuckles his belt next, and the clink of metal and the slide of leather thrills through Steve. makes him hungry, as Bucky’s hands move slowly, methodically, and suddenly Steve is desperate for Bucky to peel those jeans away, to cover him with his body, to take him apart and undo him. He knows he’s a mess, can feel his hair wild around him. Suddenly, irrationally, he's afraid Bucky will leave. 

Bucky’s belt drops to the ground. He undoes a button of his jeans, deliberately, and Steve moans, soft, impatient, hungry for Bucky to touch him again.

Bucky's voice is strangled, thick sounding "Fuck, _Steve_ "

Jeans forgotten, he’s on Steve again, metal hand wrapping around his ankle, pulling him to the foot of the bed, and _fuck_ Bucky's so strong, Steve allows Bucky to move him, to rearrange his legs, to spread them wider, marveling at how easy it is for him.

Bucky’s hands are gentle now and he can’t seem to keep them from Steve’s thighs, his hips, running them over his belly and down his sides, ghosting over the livid mark on his side. 

“Fuck, Steve, you’re so big. God, look at you, sweetheart.”

“Been trying to be…”

Steve tries to make excuses for himself but Bucky nips him again, on the thigh this time, and his brain short circuits.

“Can’t fucking take care of yourself.”

More little bites, up and down his thighs, over his hips. Bucky’s cheek brushes his cock.

“Ngghhh! Buck! Please!”

“Should have,” Bucky mutters. Now his teeth are settling over Steve’s hipbone, at least the bit that still protrudes. Steve’s hips twitch upward helplessly and he grips his hands in the sheets, thighs straining apart. Bucky smiles against the curve of his abdomen and Steve can feel the curve of his lips, his warm breath.

“Aw, Steve. I should have come up sooner, made sure you were taking care of yourself.”

He kisses Steve gently, lips pressing to the crease of his hip, licking over the curve of his thigh, getting closer and closer.

“Know you’ve got no common sense at all. No sense of self-preservation.”

Then Bucky slips his mouth over Steve’s cock, and Steve can’t think of being sorry, of expressing an appropriate amount of regret, of being indignant about Bucky’s assessment of his self-care.

Nothing.

All he knows for a long time is Bucky. The soft, eager sounds he makes, the hot and silky feeling of his mouth closing tight around him, pulling off occasionally to lap at the head of his cock while his hand keeps moving, cool metal sliding up and down, teasing at his foreskin. Steve watches breathless, mouth open, shocked by the sounds. The slick wet noises, Bucky’s eager little noises. Steve’s own moans falling uncontrollably from his lips.

His hips move restlessly until Bucky pins him, metal and flesh alike curling around his hips, gripping his ass hard. Bucky’s cheeks become pinker and pinker, and he impatiently pushes at his hair, but it doesn’t block the view. Pink lips stretching, the rhythmic movements of his head up and down, the sight of his cock disappearing and reappearing.

When Steve comes he can feel it, can feel the urgency, his stomach tensing, and pleasure coiling in his spine. He groans, words being ripped from his throat.

“Buck. Buck. I’m...my...”

Bucky redoubles his efforts, taking Steve deep and groaning around his cock before Steve comes, his whole body tensing, toes curling. He yells, nearly out of control with the intensity of it, hips jerking frantically against Bucky’ strong, unyielding grip. Bucky swallows, throat moving.

He’s gentle with Steve then, lets his cock slip out of his mouth with delicate little licks and soft kisses over his hips to his belly, where the faint bruises are already showing.

When he pushes up, Steve goggles at him. He’d completely forgotten Bucky was wearing pants, still. Bucky kisses him, lips lingering over his cheek.

“Gonna let the cat out.”

Bucky disappears and Steve crawls under the blankets, drowsy as he listens to the familiar-yet-not sounds of Bucky moving around the apartment. Greeting the cat, angry yelling meows and soft laughter. The bathroom, brushing teeth. Then Bucky’s back, stripping off his jeans and slipping into bed. Small paws are on Steve’s legs.

Bucky curls into him, rearranging Steve’s limbs around him and Steve pulls him close, nestles his nose into his hair. It smells good, like Bucky always does.

“I’m not mad, exactly,” Bucky says, finally.

“Aren’t you? I might be. Were I you,” Steve answers carefully.

Bucky shifts, pressing one hairy leg into Steve’s. His feet are cold, and Steve shudders.

“Steve, you don’t owe me anything.”

Steve starts to speak and Bucky pushes his icicle feet more firmly against his calves, forestalling it. “We have a relationship, yes, but we’ve made no promises. You don’t owe me information, and I’m not your caretaker. I’m mad that you didn’t tell your team. Sam talked to me.”

Steve tenses, not sure he likes where this is going.

“Before you moved. I didn’t want you to do this, not with your healing on the fritz. He told me, reminded me, really, that most of the Avengers are all too human. I accept that. Accept that you can fight, with or without it. But Steve, they have to know. You’re front line, first line of offense, and you wear barely any armor. They expect that you can take a hit and get up and keep going. You’re part of a team, and you have to act like it and give them the relevant info. Let them decide how to deploy you. You’re not solo, anymore.”

He sighs. “Maybe I should come back and someone else can rotate to the cabin. I can snipe at least, watch your back.”

“No!” Steve winces at his volume and then goes on. “No, Buck. I know your fight is over. I don’t want you to take it up again, not for me, not for anyone.”

Bucky’s silent for a bit. “Do they talk about me? After?”

Steve prevaricates. “Mostly good stuff, but yes. A little.”

Bucky sighs.

“Ah, Bucky, darling, come here.”

He pulls Bucky closer, partly onto this chest, kisses his hair. “I _know_. Buck, I know. I would hate to have anyone witness me, after Bucky died. And I’d do anything not to return there. It’s not completely the same, of course.”

He shudders and forges onward. “I would not leave you willingly to go back there, and even were you not here to compel me, I’d want to stay. I will not ask you to take up your sword again, merely to safeguard against my foolishness. I will be more careful. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t like to be helpless. Dependent.”

“No, and at first I wasn’t sure.”

“And when you were?”

“I was afraid,” Steve whispers. “I’m afraid, Bucky.”

Bucky pushes up against Steve’s chest. “Steve, is it more than the healing? Are you…?”

Steve considers. “I’m not truly sure. I might just be old. Trying to do too much. But I feel like I’m unwinding. Coming apart at the seams, a bit.”

Bucky’s face crumples. “Oh, Steve. You’ve been here a long time now. And you don’t belong here, not properly. When we travel with the Pym particles, it’s a clean process. I don’t have the right words to explain it, but you’re a discrete particle, a small bit moving on the timeline, lifted cleanly away and dropped into place and then lifted up again.

He continues, “It’s hard on the body, in its own way but it’s controllable. When you come through like you did, it’s messy. You drag time itself with you. And eventually it wears on you, and you snap back.”

Steve watches Bucky’s serious face as he keeps trying to explain.

“There’s a degree of willpower involved, but it takes great effort and it’s wearing. It wore on Grant so much, and he didn’t want to be here at all. He had to will it, with every fiber of his being, and it nearly pulled him apart. And eventually, no matter what you will...”

Steve whispers, “You get pulled back.”

Bucky nods, inhales. “Did you bring the particles with you? When you came?”

Steve shakes his head, thinking of the softly glowing green in his drawer.

“Of course you didn’t. Steve, are you sure? We could send you back. I could try to find you. You could find Devil.”

Steve laughs harshly. He pulls Bucky even closer, grips his face with hands that even now ache slightly. Stares into wide, gray eye and notes, absently, that he’d picked correctly. This blanket really is the exact shade of Bucky’s eyes.

“That is a low blow, Bucky. I miss my Devil, more than I can say. And from what you say, there is a good chance I will end up back there, whether I will it or no.”

He slides one hand to the back of Bucky’s neck, gentles the other, fingertips on full lips.

“I have been in pain before, far worse than this. I will likely be in worse pain, again. Bucky Barnes, I will bear all of that, rather than willingly give up a single day on this planet for uncertainties. Worse, uncertainties that drag you into danger.”

He shakes Bucky gently, savors the way his eyes flutter and then snap into focus again.

_I will die here if I have the choice, before I walk away from you._

He doesn’t want Bucky to see that, to bear that. Doesn’t want Bucky to walk away from his life for him, and doesn’t want Bucky to mourn again. He doesn't mention retiring for the same reasons; he'd only drag Bucky in deeper. Steve should walk away entire, but he’s not strong enough for that. He’ll take what he has, the moments they have now. He’ll smile and kiss Bucky when he can, and hope that neither of them is too torn apart when time comes for them. 

Steve takes a deep breath and redirects the conversation.

“You said I could name the kitten? I want to name her Angel.”

Bucky accepts the new topic, doesn't push further. Steve hates himself a little.

“That cat is _no_ Angel.”

“She’s sweeter than you, Bucky.”

It’s a lie, but Bucky narrows his eyes at him anyways, nips at his finger when Steve tries to stroke his lip again. It rapidly devolves from there, with more biting and some kissing, and some spirited hisses from Angel, who decides that moving feet under blankets are excellent toys.

Later, there is reheated Indian food, and kitten bites, and more kisses. Bucky falls asleep with a faint smile on his lips while Steve strokes his hair and listens to the small purr at his feet.

Steve patiently untangles the wavy strands while he thinks. He’d seen a different side of Bucky today. He’d known, of course, that Bucky had been the Winter Soldier, even if that doesn’t mean much, in his own timeline. He’d heard whispers, painful ones about him after Thanos had come. About his kill count, the metal arm, how he’d gotten it. Bucky himself had alluded to it. But it’s one thing for Bucky to lightly, teasingly talk about the holes in his brain, and another to hear the dread in other people’s voices, to see pictures, to imagine the horror.

Steve puts it firmly out of his mind. Instead, he stares down at Bucky, at his relaxed face, at his mouth soft with sleep. This Bucky, this is the man he _loves_. He’s spoken of love, but has been casual about it, indirect. He hasn’t wanted to put that burden on him. This Bucky is so different from his own, his original.

His Bucky had never looked so soft. They’d both been of a size, before, and the gamma had had Bucky even broader, stronger. His metal arm had had none of the lightweight metals or technology available here. He’d carried the heavy device easily on his strong frame. Appearances aside, that Bucky _had_ been softer. He’d been a dreamer, a planner, his eyes always on the stars. For all that he’d fought with ferocity, his heart had never been never truly in it.

This Bucky was now his, too. Steve kisses the top of Bucky's head, inhales the scent of his own shampoo in Bucky’s hair. This Bucky didn’t ask for war either, but his suffering had molded him into something different, something that is both less and more. If this Bucky had gone to face the Red King...

It’s a half-realized thought, and he doesn’t like to think on it, but he thinks this Bucky would come back, the head of the Red King in hand. He’d come back and toss it at Steve’s feet and kiss him without a further thought.

Then again, he can’t imagine this Bucky ever being captured the way they had been. He’s too cagy, too jumpy. Supposedly he’s mellowed, but Steve had seen all the weapons that had come out of his jacket and his jeans. He has seen him leap to his feet in the middle of the night, knife already in hand before his eyes had come fully open.

Steve’s gone through the Cabin and “security head” or not, the amount of weapons and hidden traps and escape points throughout the property are truly bewildering. Even allowing for guarding time travel itself, and the man with its secrets in his head. 

He’s a study in contrasts, truly. Gentle looking, with his soft, snug pants and his pretty hair. He’s the kind of man Steve wants to tease, to rile up and pull into his lap, suck kisses into his neck and whisper sweet, obscene things until his cheeks burn and his cock rises. Much of their time together had been just that. It’d been a theme of sorts. Steve had seen hints of the man underneath when they sparred, but only hints.

Tonight, he’s seen more of the hard, cold edge, which scares others. Causes people to whisper about him in dark corners. It doesn't scare Steve. It pulls him in and arouses him, makes him want to throw himself against Bucky and cut himself to bits.

Bucky had broken into his apartment _he hadn’t even asked how_ , had bit him until he’d bruised, dragged him to bed, and sucked him. Steve had just moaned and spread his legs further, begged for kisses after.

Then again, Bucky had also brought him a plant and a kitten. Keeps trying to take care of him, protect him.

Yeah, he’s pretty fucking gone on Bucky Barnes. On the Winter Soldier. Whatever the fuck he’s called, whatever side of him is showing, Steve loves it all, and it makes him ache inside. 

Bucky stays the entire weekend. He helps with debris removal and rubs down Steve after his training sessions. Steve learns how to take care of a kitten, and bakes mint chocolate brownies.

Steve sends him home with enough brownies for Bucky and Bruce to live off them for a week, and supply all of New Asgard too. 

When Bucky leaves, Steve curls up in his bed, inhales the scents, still on the sheets. Wonders how long it will sustain him, until the loneliness washes over him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -general descriptions of violence during an Avengers battle  
> -Bucky bites Steve unprovoked/without permission and presses on the bite to see if it will bruise up.  
> -Bucky initiates sex when he's angry/upset with Steve and is somewhat rough with him; the aforementioned bite, pulling him into the bedroom, and ripping off his clothes. Steve goes along with him/encourages him. I don't think it's as intense as this makes it sound, but we all have different gauges and comfort levels. Steve and Bucky discuss their fears/underlying concerns afterwards.


	13. chapter 11 - down inside i'm bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve returns to Battleworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> gore, graphic descriptions of violence  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Earth 2028, Arizona_

_He moves through the narrow stone halls slowly, quietly. Sword held upright. He’s near his destination, to the Red King, to freedom. Just a little further...a clamor behind him, and he whirls, sword going loose in his grip…_

Bucky frowns and kicks at a rock with one foot. Frowns a little more at the red dust that rises. It’s fucking _hot_ , over a hundred degrees at least, and he can feel the sweat running down the back of his neck, pooling at the small of his back. He checks the scanner again. Gives it a good shake. It continues to emit a flat, dull buzz.

Sighing heavily, Bucky takes a long drink from his water bottle, wipes at his forehead, and keeps walking.

His boots slide on the sand, and the cacti grow thicker and thicker, until Bucky is weaving through them, swinging one way, and then the other, stopping every few feet to peer at the scanner. It continues to buzz, even when he pokes at the buttons.

Next rock he finds, he plops down for a break, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt. The whole garment clings wetly to him, and his jeans feel frankly disgusting, sunglasses practically fogging up. But he hadn’t really planned well for this trip. Bucky doesn’t do missions, per se anymore, but the sensors had needed attention.

Post Thanos, an immediate project had been to never get caught sleeping again. They’d set up sensors of all kinds, ones that detect and track all kinds of energies. Mostly the fluctuations associated with time travel, with holes in space opening up, but also radiation of all kinds: alpha, gamma, and beta, at all levels.

Including the particular kind of radiation that the Infinity Stones give off when they are being used.

There’s a certain degree of predictability there, with each stone having a calling card of sorts. The time stone, they know. It’s a soft, consistent thrum that drifts up and down, depending on what Strange is doing with it and where he is. The areas the tesseract had been had left stamps, rough buzzy spots that have faded over the years.

But recently, others had started going off. These they don’t know. A high, bright tinkling one was the most common, but there were others too. Sensors go haywire for a few minutes or hours, sometimes a few days, and then the signal trickles away. It’s the kind of thing that Bruce and Bucky have been trying to track down for months.

There’s been a certain degree of predictability, lately, despite their lack of success. An alert sounds, they triangulate, and they try to get out there while the signal is still there. Usually, it dies out, unfound.

This signal had lasted longer than usual, trilling high and constant until Bucky had climbed out of his car and reached the first few cacti popping up out of the sand. The scanner had nearly vibrated out of his hands, and he’d frantically tapped at the record button, capturing as much data as he could. The signal had not been familiar one. High, light, ringing, orange lights dancing in an unpredictable pattern.

And he’d sworn for the briefest of moments, that he’d felt a presence just behind him, nearly tangible He’d turned, hand hovering over his holster, ready to pull his gun. Nothing had been there, but then there’d been the faintest feeling, a light tickling sensation over his ear and the side of his neck. He’d brushed roughly at it, and then the scanner had gone dark, emitting a flat, dull buzz.

Then, nothing. No feelings, no atmospheric disturbance, as if the scanner hadn’t been vibrating nearly out of his hand just a minute ago.

It’s weird.

Bucky turns the scanner off and turns it back on again. He shakes it once more, holds it up higher, like an Infinity Stone is some kind of fucking cell tower, and then he loses the signal altogether.

He hadn’t truly expected to find anything, out here. Honestly he had been surprised he’d gotten as much as he had. He’s not sure what all is going on, what with Infinity Stones popping in (and out) again, but it worries him. It could just be the Infinity Wars. Thanos had really messed things up, and even with Steve replacing them, they know now that the time is not nearly as simple as had been hypothesized. Frankly, Bucky is pretty sure that even if Steve had put back the stones perfectly, exactly as planned (and he’s pretty fucking sure that Steve _didn’t_ ), that it would still mess things up, split the timeline further.

_Still nothing_. _Buzzzzzzzzzzz_.

“Yeah okay.”

He pries his cell phone out of his pocket and dials Bruce.

“Hey Buck, any sign of it?”

Bruce sounds distracted, the connection staticky, like he’s in a wind tunnel.

“Do you have me on speaker phone again?” Bucky complains.

He can hear well enough, he’s a fucking super soldier, but it’s the principal of the thing.

Bruce persists. “Hmm, yeah. The stone? Anything?”

“Absolutely no signal. It’s like it was never there. No residue at all.”

Bucky hangs the scanner around his neck _acceptable risk no one else around_ and gets back to his feet. He can hear Bruce typing, a loud clacking. It’d taken a while for his motor skills to get good enough for that, but he does well enough now, even if he blows through a keyboard every few months from his heavy handed typing.

“Ahh! Fuck!”  
  


“Bucky? Bucky?! Are you okay?”

“Ughh! What the _shit?_ ”

Bucky gets himself under control. “This fucking cactus….it jumped on me!”

Bruce starts laughing.

“Jesus fuck.” Bucky continues to swear while he carefully detaches the hooked spines from his pant legs and his thighs. It’s not pleasant, but he grits his teeth and does it, checks the scanner again.

“Bruce, there’s nothing here, not anymore.”

“Alright Bucky, come on back home then.”

It’s a long, hot trudge out of the desert, with more jumping cacti.

_pretty though_

The sky is intensely blue, not a cloud in sight, and the rocks and sand are layered in pale sand and brick red rock, while arms of the cacti stretch to the sky.

Small birds poke their heads from where they’ve bored holes in the cactus.

“Risky lodgings, that,” he mutters to one, a small bird that cocks its head at him. Lizards slide out of sight as he walks.

Bucky’s water is drained by the time he gets back to the main road. Finally, the car comes into view, a nondescript rental. Bucky swings inside and sighs with relief as the air conditioning kicks on. It’s a fair drive back to the motel, the winding roads overlooking huge stretches of rock and occasionally expanses of gnarled trees.

He’s already checking his watch, mentally calculating the hours, trying figure out if he’ll get home in time. Steve’s fucking finally got some leave and will be heading home for the cabin soon. Bucky had wanted to beat him there, had wanted to make sure everything was in order, make it tidy and welcoming, with a fully stocked fridge.

Hell, who is he kidding? He wants plenty of time to shower and tame his frizzy hair, to figure out what he’s going to wear. He can admit to some vanity. He wants to look good. Last thing he wants is to roll off the plane and stumble into Steve’s arms, wild-haired, dehydrated, dry skinned, and a little sunburned.

It’ll heal.

His motel is also, mercifully, air conditioned. He peels the disgusting clothing from his body and flings himself into the shower. Afterward, he lolls naked on the bed, chilling himself under the blast of cold air. After a failed attempt to get on an earlier flight, he sends the disappointing data off to Bruce, and then falls asleep with his hair still damp while mentally counting down the hours until he’ll be back home, until he’ll see Steve again. It’s going to be close.

Bucky’s barely gotten home, has just had time to sling his duffle bag in his bedroom door when he hears the slam of a car door and the crunch of gravel under the murmur of low voices. In that second, he forgets his hair _dire_ , the state of the house _what the hell Bruce_ , and that he smells like airplane and failure. Front door banging shut behind him, he’s rushing down the stairs, making no attempt to hide his eagerness, his joy. He can feel his face stretching in a wide grin. It’s been _weeks_ between his trips and Steve’s schedule.

It’s okay. Steve’s dropped his own bag in the driveway and is coming towards Bucky just as eagerly, smile just as wide. He looks beautiful, ridiculously so. Bucky drinks in the sight of him like he’d never seen him before, feels his heart beating like it’s going to come right out of his chest and nestle into its home inside Steve’s.

He’s dressed casually, in a cut-up muscle tee, a peeling foil pineapple over one pec. It’s a little obscene, actually, the curve of Steve’s pecs and the delightful little muscles that jump under his arms, along his ribs. His arms are strong and muscled, covered in golden, freckled skin and pink scars. Wisps of hair escape from his braid and he’s got a baseball cap in one hand. He’d been wearing it _oh_ _fuck_ backwards, and his hair is staticky, sticking up from his head.

Bucky’s flinging himself forward, and Steve’s dropping the hat and catching him, all strong arms and warm skin and thin cotton.

They hold each other close for a minute. Bucky tucks his nose into the crook of Steve’s neck, resisting the urge to rub his nose in Steve’s chest hair temptingly beckoning from his low necked, absurd tank top.

He feels Steve kiss the top of his head and sigh, content and happy-sounding. He hears Bruce sigh, though his is long suffering.

“Nice to see you, too, Bucky. Guess I’ll just go.”

Bucky manages to unwrap one hand from Steve’s waist.

_why the fuck is his shirt cut so low_

He can practically slide his hand right inside and feel all those delightful little muscles under his arm and along his ribs. He unpeels his head from Steve’s neck.

“Bye, Bruce! Thanks for the mess!”

Bruce shrugs unrepentantly and packs himself back into his Prius while Bucky and Steve untangle themselves, resolving back into their respective bodies, still smiling wordlessly at each other.

Steve gently touches Bucky’s cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

Bucky snorts. He is no such thing. Hair aside, his t-shirt is stretched out and has a questionable stain on it that might have been there before, might have been his breakfast. His boots are dusty and his jeans—the less said about those the better.

Bucky pushes at Steve. “Go, go inside. I’ll get your things.”

He plops the hat back onto Steve’s head and goes to get the duffle bag left carelessly in the driveway.

Steve brightens. “Angel!”

And he’s heading into the house in a shot, looking for that damn cat. When Bucky stops to appreciate the view, it’s excellent, but he’s distracted because Steve is wearing the ugliest pants he’s ever seen. Swooshy track pants, hanging low on his narrow waist.

“Steve what are those?!”

Bucky can barely restrain his glee. They are so unfortunate. Navy blue, swooshy, snaps and narrow white strips up the side.

Bucky isn’t sure if he wants to undo the snaps, and run a hand up the solid thighs he knows are underneath or set fire to them. The polyester content in the smoke would probably harm the chickens.

He restrains himself on both counts, and instead gathers Steve’s discarded duffle bag, following him into the house.

Things should had been strained between the two of them, with Steve joining the Avengers, Steve pulling shit Bucky should have seen, like hiding the breakdown of his healing factor from his team and hiding that physically, he wasn’t doing all that well. Bucky had been upset, but he’s been in planning mode ever since.

He goes to New York as often as he can, on any string of days that Steve might have off. He taps in various young Avengers to watch over Bruce. He’s doing more training, when he’s in New York. Lessons in sniping, but also security, sneakiness, things that normally an Avenger wouldn’t do but now they have multiple hats to wear.

New York, had been full of bad memories and old ghosts. His ill-fated time as an Avenger. Seeing Grant around every corner, until he’d been pulled back. Grant with his sad, sympathetic smile, and the wedding ring on his finger, and his familiar, faded eyes. But the painful bits hadn’t hit as hard with Steve by his side, and the city’s changed, the Avengers have changed, and Bucky’s changed.

Still, when Bucky can’t get away, Steve comes to him. Those times, those short windows of time they steal, those are the _best_ times.

They don’t do much of anything, really. Play with Angel, who has become round and sassy, and bounces off the walls whenever Steve comes home. Bucky would feel mildly resentful, that the cat he cares for day in and day out forgets him as soon as Steve comes through the door. But, he can’t blame her.

Steve cooks for Bucky while Bucky watches him with adoring eyes. Then Bucky shows Steve whatever is growing. Steve disappears back into the lab with Bruce, and then they watch movies. They walk all over the land and Steve drinks in the changing landscape, the trees flowering and the air growing warm again. He reacquaints himself with the chickens, and with the strange eggs that Valkyrie had sent him that he’s incubating. They’re mostly solid black, a few with a faint hint of purple.

_Hopefully they’re not carnivorous chickens_

Bucky is still not fully happy with Steve’s choices. Hell, he’s not happy with his own choices. But they’ve settled into an equilibrium. He can live with it, for now. He’d seen the faint bruises on Steve’s face and his throat today, and it had sent a frisson of discomfort through him.

_How bad had they been?_

He hadn’t let himself say anything. He’d kissed Steve on the cheek and left him playing with the cat while he went to inspect the fridge.

_Steve always comes back so hungry, even though Bucky knows he eats enough for three super soldiers._

He’d been scared at first, scared of Steve leaving him behind, scared of keeping Steve from exploring his options, scared of losing Steve, Hell, Bucky can think of anything to be scared of these days, but despite his fear, the constant fear, he’d kept going.

He pats his pocket, feels the slender vial that is his constant companion, just in case.

Bucky pats at his pocket once more, feels the slender vial there, and goes to find Steve. He’s decided he really would like to explore those horrible, fascinating snaps along the side of Steve’s pants in more detail.

It’s a task he has to table for later, though. He finds Steve sprawled on his bed. Angel is perched on his chest, and blinks slowly at Bucky, a smug, satisfied loaf, gently rising and falling with Steve’s gentle breathing. The duffle bag appears to have exploded, laundry littering the end of the bed, the shield tipped against the wall.

Bucky waffles for a minute. He has a half a dozen things to do. A shower, his own laundry from his trip, food, dealing with the disaster that Bruce left him. But instead, he quickly checks the security system, and sheds his own clothes. Carefully trying not disturb man or cat, he slides into bed, shaping his body to Steve’s, passing a gentle hand over Angel’s soft fur.

_it can all wait until later_

And there is a later, for now. A later when they wake up slowly, kissing and touching until the cat leaves in a huff. A later when they tumble into the shower together, and then eat together, and then go back to bed together. A later, where Bucky can feel the tension in his gut, in his heart, relax just a bit.

In the morning, they’d woken up late, and eaten a lazy breakfast. Bucky had enjoyed Steve’s coffee, always better than his own. They’d planned to walk in the forest, maybe stroll down to the other side of the lake. Bucky’s certain that the ducklings will be out by now. He likes to keep them separate from the chickens. He doesn’t want his babies to get bullied, but the ducklings are still sweet when they’re small, dipping into the water. If there’s anything Bucky loves, it’s Steve’s face with sweet, soft baby creatures. Angel as a kitten had given him enough fodder for months, but he’s always ready to re-up.

Ducklings on Planet Hulk were probably awful, probably more like ferocious hell geese with two heads and a license to kill on that gamma radiated clusterfuck Steve had reluctantly called home. So Bucky had planned for ducklings, planned for the sight of Steve’s big hands gentle on small fuzzy things.

Instead, his plans had been derailed almost immediately.

Well rested, well fed, and back _home_ , Steve is insatiable for Bucky, making up for his time away. Short kisses, on the porch. Longer kisses in the woods, and wandering hands, and Bucky’s a fool, a goddamn fool who conveniently forgets how to think with anything above his waist once Steve turns that dark, sincere gaze on him and touches him with those big, strong hands.

But Steve’s hands are gentle on his hips, and his lips are soft against Bucky’s neck. The sunlight breaking through the trees is warm and bright, and he feels good, safe and happy and turned on. Sex during the war had been rushed, desire flavored with fear and ash. This, right now, is nothing like that. Sex with Steve has a dozen different flavors.

Steve presses his nose against Bucky’s hair, the crease of his arm, his throat, and inhales deeply. One thing leads to another, and somehow, Bucky finds himself gripping a tree for dear life, wrapping his legs eagerly around Steve, feeling the scrape of bark against his back. Pants around his ankles in the middle of the goddamn forest.

Fuck, he’s got to clear at least that bit of the security camera and he really never thought this would happen again, had sincerely thought that getting railed in the woods had been something he’d left back where it had belonged, in Nazi Germany in the 40s.

Bucky’s brainless reverie abruptly dissipates when the tree trunk begins to shake under his hands, the ground rumbling beneath his feet. Before he can respond in any practical manner, his heart nearly comes out of his chest when Steve lets out a blood curdling yell with _absolutely_ no warning at all, and it’s answered with a distant roar.

Bucky flails, suddenly frantic, needing to get his hands on a knife, a weapon, something, but Steve’s hands tighten on his hips and he’s laughing, the fucking asshole is _laughing_ right in his ear.

“Bucky! It’s Devil! My warbound has found me!”

Bucky relaxes for approximately a single millisecond. As the words begin to make sense, he redoubles his efforts because this is not good, this is _awful_ and his words escape through gritted teeth.

“Isn’t Devil a dinosaur?”

“A T-rex like you’ve never seen, both ferocious and loyal.”

“Steve. Steve. Come on, Steve. _Lemme go_.”

“Ssshhhh.”

Completely unhurried, Steve smooths a hand up his back.

“Bucky, we still have a minute. Just let me…”

He grinds against Bucky, makes his meaning clear. Bucky is so _fucking predictable,_ because Steve’s calm, unhurried hand does soothe him and Bucky’s mouth is a fucking traitor.

He means to say, “Absolutely not, there is a fucking dinosaur stomping towards us! How the fuck did it get here?”

Instead, his faithless lips mumble, “Yeah, okay.”

Then he moans as Steve takes him at his word and thrusts into him with hard, quick, efficient movements. Bucky’s startled by his own orgasm, face going red with Steve’s sharp teeth on his throat.

His embarrassment is fleeting when Steve’s helping him up, steadying him while his jeans are done up. Then Steve kisses him hard on the lips. His cheeks are pink, and he smells of sex and sunshine. He’s practically vibrating with excitement.

The ground is practically leaping beneath them now. Despite Steve’s excitement, Bucky kneels and removes the knife at his ankle before following Steve, jumping across the ground that’s still shuddering beneath them. Blood curdling yells coming from Steve _being answered_ sends chills down his spine.

They burst into the clearing around the Pym platform, and Steve scrambles up and over it, running headlong towards the enormous Tyrannosaurus rex on the other side. Bucky has a brief, wild moment where he’s ready to leap forward if that dinosaur sets a tree trunk leg on the platform, lest he be drawn and quartered by Bruce. Then his good sense reasserts himself and he holds back from challenging a fucking T. rex.

Distracted by Steve, the T. rex does not violate the sanctity of the platform.

Bucky takes in the sight of an actual goddamn dinosaur.

The T. rex is large. Not as large as he’d thought, but he dwarfs some of the smaller trees. He’s beautiful. Skin shining, sleek and patterned in gradients of red. Dark brick red patterns over his sides and haunches, brilliant scarlet over his head, and pale red under his belly. His small arms are tipped with razor sharp claws; the golden eyes shine with keen intelligence. It lunges forward, giant jaw stretching wide to reveal razor sharp teeth, an enormous pink tongue, and drool sliding from the corners while it bellows, the air practically blowing Bucky’s hair backwards.

Before the T. rex, standing tall and proud, is Steve. He’d dressed in exercise clothes that morning, and his hair hangs down his back in a long braid. His freckles had popped up after their ‘excursion’ and now they’re scattered across his shoulders and arms. Steve halts before the enormous, gaping maw, and he stretches his arms wide, situated firmly against the awesome ( _terrifying_ ) sight.

Bucky feels his stomach tighten, nerves dancing through him. He has to will himself to relax, for his heart rate to slow, for the cold, hard part of him to stay remote and quiescent. To trust Steve, to trust the love he’s heard in Steve’s voice when he’s talked about Devil. Despite himself, tears stand in his eyes and his heart is beating fast.

Devil’s mouth snaps shut. Then it opens again, and an amazing medley of sound pours forth, grunts and growls and hisses. Gradually, Bucky realizes that Devil is _bitching Steve out._

Devil carries on and Steve patiently waits until Devil’s noises wind down. Then he slowly falls to his knees in the soft earth, spreading his arms wide, head tipped back. The enormous dinosaur leans even further down. His huge snout gently brushes at Steve’s hair, huffing.

A huge, disgusting sneeze. Steve laughs.

“Hush, Devil. It’s just ginger.”

Then the T. rex is grumbling, deep in its throat, gently rubbing its muzzle against Steve’s face and his chest. Steve wraps his arms as best as he can over the dinosaur’s head.

Bucky can see Steve’s shoulders shaking, and he sits to wait on the platform, gazing off into the trees. He pats absently at his pockets, wishing he had a cigarette. 

It’s a long time before Steve raises his head and turns towards Bucky. His eyes are red and puffy, and his is face wet with tears and snot, but he’s smiling, wide and beautiful. He never takes his hands off Devil, off the T. rex that had slowly collapsed to the ground, curling its body around Steve with remarkable grace, its tail swishing happily, rhythmically thudding against a fortunately solid tree trunk. 

“Buck. Bucky, this is…”

Steve beams down at the huge head, barely resting in his lap, the tip of a nose, really.

“This is Devil, my warbound, my friend.”

His voice changes timbre subtly, firm and gentle.

“Devil. Devil, attend to me.”

A yellow eye opens and blinks.

“Devil.”

Bucky can tell Steve is trying to decide how to explain, and he wonders exactly how smart Devil is. What capacity to learn he has. He’d seemed marvelously clever, from Steve’s stories. And nothing on Planet Hulk was as it seemed.

“Devil, this is Bucky. A different Bucky, the Bucky of this planet.”

Devil chuffs.

“Oh! He does smell quite different from our warbound.”

More noises and Steve chuckles. “Good smells though, yes, Devil, I agree.”

Bucky feels distinctly embarrassed, remembering how often Steve has sniffed him, how he’s deliberately mingled their scents. He flushes red as he suddenly remembers.

_oh fuck_

There it is. Devil nuzzles at Steve’s crotch and huffs.

Bucky just had to go and get fucked in the forest this morning, the morning a dinosaur that seems to be more bloodhound than anything else shows up

“Devil! That’s rude. Well, you’re not wrong.”

Steve rubs at the back of his neck.

“He’s _not_ Bucky, from before but yes, we’ve, um. Warbounds are not how affection, closeness is expressed here. But he’s good. He’s a good fighter, he’s very like Bucky. His smells are good and I lo... Well, he has become a part of my terror. We’ve formed one together. We’ve come together, many times.”

Bucky is intrigued and amused at this summary of his attributes. Fights good, smells good, fucks good. But, he can see Steve’s shoulders are tense and finally, he realizes that this is as close as he will ever get to meeting the in-laws, to meeting Steve’s family.

Bucky steels himself, squares his shoulders, and climbs up over the platform. He approaches slowly, trying to project strength and a little deference. He doesn’t hide the gentle curiosity he feels for the dinosaur, or the affection he has for Steve. He lets his fingers trail along Steve’s shoulders as he passes him. His hands don’t tremble, though his heart and soul quiver as he offers a hand to the huge creature.

The creature eyes him. Turns its head, one way, then another, huffing. Bucky realizes it’s scenting him, drinking in his odor at a more intimate level. And then, Bucky hardly dares to breath as the T. rex gently rests his nose against Bucky’s outstretched hand and makes a soft chortling sound he hadn’t heard before. Hardly able to believe it’s happening, Bucky strokes the strangely soft snout, passes a hand over the scaled head, and then acting on instinct, he scratches at the ridged brows protecting the small eyes.

His heart nearly goes out of his chest when Devil groans and whines, pushing his head so eagerly at Bucky that the force nearly knocks him on his ass. He obliges, getting both hands in there and scratching first one ridge, and then the other.

When he glances back at Steve, there are more tears streaming down his face, and he’s smiling again.

_oh_

Bucky’s heart does something in his chest, something he’s been trying to ignore, but can no longer push aside. It’s jumping up and down, shouting at him.

After Bucky meets Devil, and is rudely sniffed _and_ sneezed on, for his troubles, he calls someone. Anyone, really. Anyone that needs to know that there is now a very large, very red T. rex stomping around the woods and that he it is not to be trifled with.

He calls Bruce, and then Sam. Carol is off planet again, and when he gets Maria instead, she’s distinctly unwilling to contact Carol for a non-issue of a rogue dinosaur. After hesitating, he calls Strange, too.

Then he does some calculations and calls some of the nearby farms, trying to figure out exactly how much meat he needs to buy for Devil to feel full and welcome and happy. How do you make a T. rex feel welcome? How does a T. rex express love? His mind is busy, trying to make arrangements.

All the while, Steve patiently takes Devil around, introducing him to the animals, the plants, and all the things that Bucky would strongly prefer Devil not eat or trample.

“Devil, these are chickens. They are Bucky’s chickens. You cannot eat them. This chicken is named Magenta. She is their warleader. This chicken, she is Columbia. This one is Eddie. Yes, they are all in Bucky’s terror. You cannot eat any of them.”

Bucky slowly sits on the porch and lights up a cigarette. He’s still got a couple stashed, here and there, though he’s finally, after some 70-odd years, decided to maybe try and quit. He puts the cigarette out, watching the white cloud dissipate while Steve moves onto the garden. Super soldier hearing means he misses none of Steve’s monologue, for which Bucky is grateful.  
  


“Devil, you may not trample these plants. These are Bucky’s plants. These in the corner, these were mine, but, uh, I did not care for them. So, really, they are all Bucky’s.”

Devil snorts.

Steve goes red. “Yes, there are a lot of rules.”

“ _No_ Devil, I _can_ so follow rule it’s just…”

He glares at the T. rex. “So long apart, and already you accuse me unkindly. I _can_ follow rules. It’s just hard. But, this is a good place Devil. Though perhaps you will be bored. I wonder.”

Bucky can already see Steve’s brain turning, can see Steve riding Devil right down Main Street, and _oh fuck_ this has so much potential for disaster.

“Steve!”

Steve and Devil both whip their heads around, staring at him with strangely alike expressions.

“What does Devil eat?”

He’s already ordered a half- dozen sides of beef, but doesn’t know if Devil needs to hunt.

Steve looks a little embarrassed. “Devil eats everything.”

“Like all kinds of meat? I ordered some beef.”

“No. _Everything_. Fresh meat, and carrion, vegetables, any food product he can get. Garbage."

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, he loves to eat garbage, more than anything. It's disgusting."

Steve pushes at Devil, who snaps at him.

Bucky’s heart jumps, and Steve goes on, casually scratching at Devil's eye ridges.

"His breath is _terrible._ I have tried to brush his teeth.”

Despite his best intentions, Bucky lights another cigarette, unable to handle the thought of Steve trying patiently to brush a T. rex’s teeth with an oversized toothbrush, probably while surrounded by the bodies of their enemies.

“Um, okay, so beef we’ll have and I guess Devil can get into the garbage, if he needs to fill in the odds and ends.”

Steve looks pained, and it cheers Bucky, a little. 

The weekend goes well, if unexpectedly. Angel hisses at Devil and smacks him with one tiny paw, and then later is found sleeping on his head. Steve sleeps outside that night, curled in the shadow of Devil’s enormous body. Bucky snaps a couple of pictures.

_it’s adorable, sue him_

Bruce comes home, and is in equal measures both shocked and amused.

Devil eats all of their garbage, and all of the beef, and then tries to nap in the chicken coop. The chickens are not impressed. 

It’s okay at first, but by the end of the weekend there are issues. Steve is supposed to go back to work, and Bucky cannot think of any practical way for Steve to keep Devil with him in New York. Or, hell, for Devil to live happily at the cabin, without Steve.

Bucky carefully does not think about how exactly Devil got here, though of course Bruce does. He’s forced to concede that the sheer size of Devil needs to be dealt with first.

So, by Monday, when they are completely out of trash, and Devil has won over the chickens settling gently onto this head, and roosting along his tail, they talk. Bucky sits on the porch, and Steve tucks himself between his legs. Bucky gently strokes his hair while he rests his head on Bucky’s knee and dozes. Steve’d been up half the night with excitement, and then hadn’t slept well outside.

He pulls a strand of Steve’s hair loose and runs his fingers through it. Loves him just a little more, even if he can’t quite say it. He’s not quite sure if Devil being here is a good sign or a bad one, but Steve’s happy, and that makes him happy.

“Steve, we’re gonna need a witch.”

First, they go to Dr. Strange, who Bucky figures is near enough to being a witch. Devil is left behind with Bruce, to whom he had taken to surprisingly well, given that he’d spent most of his long-for-a-T. rex-life at war with hulks on his own planet.

Of course, there is no true way to know where Devil came from. Steve hadn’t known and Devil isn’t saying. Bucky wonders if Battleworld is populated with native dinosaurs, if they were pulled through, how the gamma radiation had changed them. Regardless of the origins of dinosaurs on Battleworld, Devil is left in Bruce’s capable hands. Perhaps more accurately, Bruce was left in the protection of Devil’s exceedingly capable jaws.

Bucky would love to see anyone try to mess with the two of them collectively.

He’s dragged from his musings on dinosaurs when they find themselves in Dr. Strange’s weird hallway. Bucky looks around with interest, while Steve folds his hands and rocks from one foot to another, a little impatient. Steve’s been here too often to feign interest.

Strange, when he finally emerges, is resplendent in his cape and his full-on wizarding outfit. He seems mildly irritated, looking between the two of them with that look Bucky hates—distant, vague, like he’s looking _beyond_. When his gaze snaps back into focus, Bucky has the distinct feeling he has been appraised and found wanting. It’s irritating.

He gestures at Strange’s get up and blandly asks, “Were you busy?”

Usually the man is casual in worn jeans and a t-shirt, a cardigan, shattered watch strapped to his wrist. Once, he’d been conscious of appearance, wearing expensive, well-tailored clothes. Post Thanos, he’d been like most of them—too tired to care about appearances.

Strange sniffs. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Bucky surreptitiously waves at the cloak, and is pleased when the corner of it waves back.

Strange scowls. Bucky smiles.

“Can we come in? Where’s Wong?”

He’s surprised to see Strange’s cheeks turn faintly pink.

“Wong has better things to do than sit around, waiting for errant broken men to arrive on our doorstep.”

_Huh, that’s...interesting._

Bucky decides to be polite. “Please tell him hello for me, I’m sorry to miss him.”

He’s not lying. Of the two, Wong is certainly the more entertaining, with his appreciation for pop culture, sweets, and a sly sense of humor.

“I will convey your regards. Now, quickly, I don’t have all day.”

Steve and Bucky follow Strange up the long flight of stairs, efficiently summarizing the situation. They have a dinosaur and he is large. They need him to be more compact. At least sometimes.

Strange is usually difficult to surprise, but he looks distinctly discomfited when he hears that Devil Dino has arrived in his full glory on planet Earth.

“What! A dinosaur?! Here?”

Strange looks around, as though Devil may come around the corner, and Bucky has to suppress a laugh. It’s so unusual to see Strange out of his element.

“Holy _shit_!”

Like he’d been summoned, Devil pops into existence, causing a brief flurry of utter chaos. Bucky startles and Strange settles into a defensive posture. Steve is supremely unbothered by Devil’s appearance, patting the haunch of the huge beast and beaming around at Bucky and Strange, as though he is the parent of a particularly precocious child.

Turns out, Devil does fit in the library, comfortably, though Bucky thinks that has more to do with the nature of the library. The top of the ceiling is a shadowy uncertainty, and the bookshelves seem to slide and shift around the huge T. rex, allowing him to stand comfortably.

Strange recovers his equilibrium quickly enough, and Devil submits meekly enough to his examination. He allows Strange to cast long strands of glowing slight over him, to pat gloved hands all over, and even to fly up to look at Devil’s teeth, which Devil very obligingly shows in a wide smile.

Bucky winces at the long stream of drool that issues forth.

In the end, Strange flops back into his arm chair. A dark lock of hair falls over his forehead, and the red cape brushes it back, pats soothing at his shoulder.

“We’re going to need a witch.”

“You _are_ a witch.”

“Master of the mystical arts, _thank you_.”

Strange gestures at Devil, who is beginning to investigate the library by experimentally pushing his nose against the bookshelves. They push back.

“Yon behemoth does have some mystical ability, unlike his master here.”

Steve bristles. “Devil is no captive of mine. I am his warbound and he is mine.”

Bucky wonders exactly when Strange would have been assessing Steve’s magical abilities, but Strange is rolling on.

“We need different magic, a different practitioner. Even my abilities are not such that I can alter a T-Rex into a house cat.” 

“A housecat?!” says Steve, outraged, and Devil hisses his own indignation.

Both turn baleful glares on Strange, who shrugs, unaffected. Bucky strokes Steve’s shoulder soothingly and shoots Devil his own look, silently begging the dino not to begin rampaging or otherwise expressing his dissatisfaction with Strange’s vocabulary choices. They already have an understanding of sorts between them, and while Bucky is under no illusion that he’s fully in charge here, he’s clearly the only one thinking with any eye to practicality.

Steve. All Steve can see is Devil being with him again, seeing him each day, hunting and fighting together.

And Devil. Devil is single-mindedly devoted to Steve. Hell, devoted enough he somehow, with his dino brain, figured out how to transcend space and time to come back to Steve’s side. 

“Hush, Steve. Devil will not fit in your apartment. There is literally no apartment in New York you could get him into. He only fits here because it’s the Sanctum Sanctorum.”

Bucky waves his arm, trying to convey the general magical weirdness that is Strange’s library.

“Anyway, he can hardly roam the streets of New York as he is, at least not _all_ the time.”

Steve nods reluctantly, even as he shoves Devil away from some small metal objects he is entirely too interested in licking (and probably eating). With Bucky’s luck, they will be extremely magical small metal instead of random bric-a-brac, and will probably give Devil the ability to fly or read minds. Ugh. 

Really though, when he thinks about it, Devil is not much unlike Steve. Not unlike a cross between a toddler, a golden retriever and the aforementioned housecat. He wants to touch everything, to play with it, and to put it in his mouth.

He will never forget catching Steve tentatively touching his tongue to some extremely colorful dice that Carol and Maria had left behind on their last trip up.

“It _looked_ so good though!”

It’s a little different though, convincing your boyfriend not to lick dice versus his companion T. rex not to lick possibly magically potent (or at least extremely dusty) objects. 

Bucky is startled from his reverie when Wanda _fucking_ Maximoff materializes from the wall opposite him. Bucky staggers and nearly ends up on his ass. The cloak ( _nice cloak_ ) swoops over and forms a little support for him, and he gets his feet back under himself.

“Wanda?” His voice breaks. “What?”

He’s not even fully sure what he’s trying to ask.

_It’s been years. He hasn’t seen her since she’d wandered away at Tony’s funeral, and Bucky had been too distracted to go after her._

Steve and Strange both seem unaffected. Steve greets her in a mild but friendly fashion, and Strange huffs.

“It took you long enough. I’ve only been waiting for _hours_.”

Wanda gives him a dry, considering look. “You know time runs differently.”

She lets out a breathless squeak when Bucky tackles her in a hug. She’s solid enough, though her hair is tangled and smells of dust, and Bucky is afraid to let go. When he finally pulls back, he keeps one hand on a too-slender wrist.

Beyond her unkempt, too thin appearance, and the red glow in her eyes, Wanda still looks very much as she did the day of Tony’s funeral.

“Wanda, what the _fuck_?”

She smiles at him, and gently touches his cheek. “Bucky, you look wonderful.” 

Bucky had thought of her a hundred times and more. It hadn’t come to him right away, not until they got a call. He’d been so distracted, so wrapped up in his own grief that he just hadn’t noticed.

_They’d slept together, all of them piled onto the bed, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, and the smell of polyester in his nose. They’d gone to the funeral together, piled into Steve’s truck. Bucky had watched her, had watched Wanda walk away._

He’d thought at the time that she’d been behaving a bit oddly, but hell, which of them hadn’t been? And Wanda had never been not odd. But he’d replayed it in his mind afterward, the strange glow in her eyes and the hard grip of her hands on his, the half moon crescents filled with blood her nails had left on his skin.

He’d replayed the snap of her black dress in the wind as she’d walked the perimeter of the lake. The flag of her dark hair.

She’s still wearing the same dress. He touches her sleeve and fingers the torn, faded cloth.

He remembers when it was new, how she’d carelessly dumped it into the cart, a discount dress meant for a day, serving a lifetime.

“Wanda,” he says, gently this time. “Where have you been?”

Her eyes. Those are the same, still dark and luminous. The swirl of red in their depths, that too is the same.

“Bucky, I went home.”

His mouth opens. Closes.

  
“I told you. I told you I could get back, and I did.”

“To…?”

He trails off, still unwilling to call that strange, timeless time between time ‘the blip’ or ‘the snap.’”

She nods eagerly, fingers tight on his wrist and Bucky wants to ask more. He doesn’t want to go back, exactly, especially if _this_ is the result. Wanda is solid enough, but there’s something stretched thin about her. Eyes a little too bright, the edges of her dress and her hair fading into the darkness. He doesn’t want to go back but he still thinks, sometimes, of the feeling of sunshine overhead, sand under his feet, and the ocean.

Strange coughs “If you’re all _quite_ done.”

Wanda it turns out, can’t quite do it either. Somehow Thor ends up coming over too, and the three of them argue and bicker until Devil tries to lie down in the library and begins emitting an alarming groaning noise. It continues to escalate in volume and pitch, despite Steve’s efforts to soothe Devil. Finally, exasperated, Strange opens up a portal back to the Cabin. Devil deigns to use it with Steve, rather than transporting himself.

Bucky stays at first. He doesn’t quite trust that it will get done if he doesn’t supervise. But as the day drags into night, and Wanda, Thor, and Strange continue to bicker and fight about the best way to enchant a T. rex to live comfortably in New York, Bucky begins to realize that this might take some time.

When Strange finally opens a portal for him, the moon is high overhead and Wanda has faded so she’s half inside a bookshelf. Thor is lying on the floor, beard filled with stress braids, and Strange has changed out of his wizard garb and is half into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, brought to him by a long suffering Wong, who had retreated rapidly.

Back at home, Bucky slides into bed, savoring the cool sheets and the warmth of Steve’s body. He can hear Devil snoring outside their window. Suddenly, he is incredibly, unbelievably tired and he can’t stop yawning as he curls into Steve’s arms, resting his head on one firm pec and nuzzling his face into the wiry hair.

“Mmph. Your chest is ridiculous,” he mutters into Steve’s cleavage.

Steve laughs, and Bucky’s head bounces.

“Will they figure out, do you think?”

Bucky doesn’t say, “ _Who cares if they do? You and Devil should just stay here. Stay with me.”_

He doesn’t say that. For one, he can’t. For another, even if Steve never goes back to Battleworld, even if he somehow manages to stay here indefinitely and Devil stays with him, having a instant companion that is effectively the size of a bus is just not practical. Even in post-Thanos New York, a large dinosaur draws attention. Then there’s the matter of housing. Bucky loses himself for a minute, imagining Devil curled on top of Steve’s walk up. How would he even climb up there? Bucky realizes he never answered Steve, had been idly petting his chest.

“Hmm. Probably? They’re all smart enough if they can just work together. Thor and Strange, they needle each other. And Wanda, she might have changed, but she’s not exactly a team player.”

Bucky thinks for a minute. “I can’t imagine being wherever the hell she’s been has improved that.”

“Ah. Well. I can’t imagine becoming largely a creature of spirit is an easy path.”

“Is that what she is, now?”

“Truly, I do not know. But when she appeared to me, she seemed to be more spirit and pure power, than anything else. She was more human today.”

Bucky considers that. “Let’s go on vacation.”

“Vacation?”

Steve says the word like he’s never heard it before. And maybe he hasn’t.

Bucky sits up. “Vacation! Beach. I want to go to the beach.”

“The beach?”

Bucky smacks at Steve. “Did you turn into a parrot?

“What creature is a parrot?” Bucky ignores that

“Are there beaches on Battleworld?”

“Of course. There are oceans, bodies of water. I didn’t go to many of them. Just when I—”

Steve doesn’t say, “ _When I was tracking down the remaining assholes that slaughtered my husband_.”

_There’s so much they never say._

Instead, Steve begins to card a hand through Bucky’s hair, curling the ends around his fingers and letting his fingers trail down over Bucky’s shoulder. He sinks his fingers into the scar tissue there with firm pressure and Bucky nearly groans.

“Most of those beaches are rocky, desolate things. There are weird birds, taloned things with metallic wings. They can’t fly well, but they race over the rocks, and when the wind blows, their wings clack. They make these noises.”

Steve screeches and Bucky nearly levitates off his chest. “Like that, like mourning women.”

Bucky snorts. “What mourning women have you been around? I was raised with five women, pal. We did our share of mourning and I never heard any noises like that.”

“My mistake. Anyway, some are like that. I went to one and the snow was thick, mixing with sand, and the water was brackish, great chunks gray, dirty ice floating in it. And there are hulks living there, of course, in small gatherings, and they let me be, were peaceful.”

Steve shudders.

“The creatures were horrible. Very large, and they’d hide in the snow, hide in the blizzards. They’d come up out with great raking claws and glowing red eyes. Very slick fur, and they were plump, impossible to get a grip on. Very difficult to fight, to even see. They were dreadfully fast and could swim besides.”

_Steve doesn’t mention the other thing, how on that beach, Devil had found something. The blood had been long gone by then, but the scent had lingered. Devil had cried and cried, and when Steve had dug deep into the snow he’d found not much, really. A hank of brown hair that the wind had snatched from his hand almost immediately. A buckle, familiar, set in black leather._

_Nothing much, beyond a whisper of a memory._

“Steve?”

Bucky presses a kiss to Steve’s chest. Steve looks a million miles away, blues eyes gone distant, and his hand had stopped moving, resting heavy on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hmm?”

Steve visibly rouses himself, face warming by degrees. He rolls until Bucky is tucked up against him, back to chest. He kisses Bucky, warm lips on his throat.

“How are beaches here? Nicer than Battleworld, I’m sure, if you wish to vacation there.”

Bucky laughs, squirming closer back against Steve and hearing his breath catch.

“Some of them are. Sandy, warm. You can swim in the ocean, sometimes.”

He doesn’t mention how he’d spent five years on an endless beach. He’d never talked about that much, with anyone except Wanda and Sam. The others who’d been there too, Shuri and Peter.

_There’s so much they don’t say to each other, so much that goes unsaid._

A few more things go unsaid that night, hanging thick between them, but Bucky tries. He tries with his hands and his lips. Steve is doing the same, answering with his body and his breath in this strange half language they have between them, this strange half relationship balanced on a blade, waiting for their time to run out.

Wanda, Thor, and Strange take weeks to come up with a solution. Steve has to go back to work, eventually. Bucky and Devil end up spending a lot of quality time together.

There’s a lot of Bucky being exasperated, and Devil being exasperated right back, frustrated with Bucky’s lack of ability to understand his grunts, huffs, and growls. But they muddle along together well enough. 

Devil seems to like him, trying to gently herd him with the chickens and reacting with extreme violence when some assholes from AIM actually make it past the security and try to fuck around with the Pym platform. The entire area around the Cabin, and the creatures, and Bruce and Bucky, all apparently fall into Devil’s territory now, and he defends them accordingly.

What he does to the bodies. Well, it’s disgusting, but Bucky certainly can’t argue with his efficacy.

Another bonus is that Steve comes back more often. Bucky would be hurt, if he didn’t see the way that Steve’s face lights up whenever he sees the dino, see the stress that falls out of his bones.

Finally, Bucky has to go back to New York. He’d planned to, but he can sense that Devil is getting restive, spending days and weeks away from Steve. Steve too, is getting restless with it, more and more tempted to just bring Devil along. And Bucky _wants_ Devil there with Steve, wants Steve to have that extra protection.

He’s seen the way Steve pants sometimes, even climbing up the stairs to his apartment. He’s kneaded the tight muscles that never quite stop aching, has seen Steve wince when the shield lands in his hands a little too hard. Adrenaline seems to make it temporarily better, the heat of a fight. Bucky worries, that’s all.

In the Sanctum Sanctorum, he stares at the magic workers, all looking a little shame faced.

Christ, do Thor and Steve have matching shirts? That gold foil pineapple looks familiar, as well as the obscene cut outs. Thor is a very hairy man, and Bucky would normally take a minute to appreciate the sight, but he’s frustrated. Even Thor’s soft, full frame, long beard, and ridiculous sunglasses cannot distract him. Not even when paired with extremely small shorts that show off way too much leg. Ah well, Bucky has always been tragically attracted to large, blond men.

Wanda’s still wearing her dress, but she’s wearing sunglasses too. They match Thor’s. Large, black, oversized. They look outlandish with her funereal dress, even more so as she loses control of her solid shape and drifts through a display case. Strange is still in his pajamas, apparently. Galaxy printed pajama pants hanging off narrow hips, fuzzy socks, and a hoodie he recognizes from Kamala’s school drive. The Hulk one, green with a purple stripe.

Bucky narrows his eyes.

“Are you all hung over?” His voice rises at the end. “How can you even get drunk?!”

Wanda points one shaking finger at Thor. “He brought the good stuff.”

Strange hiccups. “ _Really_ good stuff.”

Bucky loses it, a little. Jabs his finger indiscriminately.

“Steve! Steve _my boyfriend_ has had a really fucking hard time! He is really fucking attached to that dinosaur. He is a goddamn Avenger. That dinosaur is an asset _. Ugh, he hates himself for using that word._ I am really attached to him. I fucking—”

He cuts himself off there, doesn’t need to say that to them, seeing their wincing faces. “Between the three of you, you could probably create a whole fucking new world. There has got to be some fucking way you can figure out a way to keep a dinosaur in New York. Because right now, Devil is in the middle of nowhere. His teleportation is haphazard at best, and him being there is really fucking inconvenient if the Avengers—Oh, I don’t know, need to assemble?”

Words tumbling out, he says, “It is one hell of a commute, and Steve is about 30 seconds way from riding that T. rex all the way here if he is called to come in. And it won’t be subtle. It will be chaotic, and horrible, and any goodwill that has been built up between the city and the Avengers will be gone, as soon as they see what Devil does to bodies.”

Thor, Wanda, and Strange exchange glances. Bucky can read the silent, _“You do something. No, you do something. He’s your fucking friend!”_

Wanda finally steps up. “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.”

And, they do.

Thor comes up with some kind of size changing spell that Bucky thinks probably came from Loki, and Wanda wraps what Bucky thinks of as a _don’t look here_ shroud around Devil that makes people see a Pomeranian or some similar fluffy harmless thing. Dr. Strange contributes a lot of condescension and smart ass comments.

The kicker is that Devil gets to decide if he’s big or small, and those choices are rarely convenient for any of them. New Yorkers are so blasé at this point that even when Devil does, it’s not a huge deal.

Things after that are good. Steve is really, really fucking happy. That happiness spills out over Bucky, and if putting up with a stinky, often cranky, miniature T-Rex is what it takes, he’ll put up with that. And a lot more, if it means getting to bathe in the light of Steve’s pure, unadulterated joy at having his _terror_ around him.

It’s sure a lot less work than going to war multiple times, and hell, Bucky’s done that more than once, just to make his guy happy and keep him safe.

Still, Devil is not an ideal living companion, large or small, and he has a way of demanding attention, in less than savory ways. Sometimes that looks like stealing garbage, or becoming large in the middle of a an inconvenient public space. Other times are less public.

“Ungh. Oh, _fuck,_ ” Bucky groans. He drops his head, lets his back arch a little. Steve snaps his hips forward in a particularly enthusiastic thrust and Bucky’s whole body rocks forward, sways, and he grips the headboard a little tighter.

“Ahh! Oh! Steve! Ngh, oh fuck, oh holy fucking Christ.”

Bucky knows he’s babbling, crying and moaning uncontrollably, but they’ve got good soundproofing and he’s a little tipsy. The continuous stream of noise and half garbled words spill out of him. They’d gone to the alien bar down the street again, and the cocktails are fucking _strong_. He’d hadn’t been smart enough to stop at two this time.

“Oh god, fuck, yes Buck.”

Steve pulls him back a little, Bucky’s head coming dangerously close to the headboard as Steve relentlessly fucks into him, each thrust pushing him a little closer to the edge. 

Bucky lets his back arch, his head fall back. The liquor is doing wonderful things to him, his nerves are singing and his skin is on fire, and Steve’s dick feels incredible. Each thrust is a long, hot slide that lights him up, sends him begging for more. The sound of his voice, frantic, begging, and desperate, and Steve’s groan fills the air along with the sound of their flesh meeting and the creak of the bed. 

Bucky’s dizzy with pleasure, too focused on the sensations in his ass to even try to reach for his dick, to get Steve to pay it some mind. Steve’s hands and then his groan, low and sonorous as he leans over Bucky, knees sliding a little in the sheets, spine bowing forward, and his hand scrabbling through the sheets.

Bucky shifts to his left arm, lets Steve tangle his fingers into his flesh hand, and then they move together, flesh slick, sliding. Bucky turns his head for sloppy, uncoordinated kisses, their mouths colliding, sliding off each other.

“Oh god, oh god, yes! Steve, Steve, yes, fuck. Please. Ngh. Oh, fuck.”

Bucky’s pants raggedly and Steve fucks him harder, faster. “ _Shit_ , yes, Buck.”

The headboard smacks into the wall and Bucky tries to push back, wanting more, he’s just about...

“Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Devil, what the fucking fuck!”_

Bucky flails as Devil pops up beside him, hissing in his face. Bucky feels his dick going limp, as he’s abruptly confronted with a double row of razor sharp teeth and fetid breath. Steve thrusts once more, nails his prostate _just so,_ and it’s too fucking much.

“ _Jesusfuck,_ Steve. Stop. Stop. Stop!” Bucky’s squirming in awkward, aborted arousal instead of helpless pleasure. Ug.

Steve pulls out of him with a wet squelch and collapses over Bucky with a groan. Bucky takes his weight for a minute, and then slowly tips to his side in a controlled fall. Steve goes with, tucking up behind him.

Devil tries to curl up with them, and Bucky thinks about allowing it. Then he wiggles a little, feels his ass is full of lube and pushes him off the bed. A strangled yelp, another hiss, and then the _thud thud thud_ of stumpy legs.

Steve yells, “Devil, you know the rules!”

“Steve, he doesn’t give a shit about the rules.”

Steve huffs in agreement.

There are definitely rules. Devil is not supposed to eat the garbage in the apartment, or at the very least, he’s not supposed to drag onto the bed and eat it. No eating the chickens, the ducks, or the cat. Or Bruce, or hell, Bucky. Eating enemies in combat is permissible, hunting them outright is not.

Devil is not supposed to disrupt anyone in the shower, and he’s supposed to stay out of the bedroom when they fuck, but Devil breaks most of those rules with abandon.

Steve rolls his hips hopefully against Bucky’s ass, teasing, stroking up and down. He’s still loose, Steve could just slide in. Bucky remembers that he is not the one who advocated for Devil to be permitted in the bedroom.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on Buck. It’d feel so good. You don’t have to do anything at all, just lie there.”

“Oh, really? You think your dick is that good?”

Bucky scoffs, conveniently forgetting just exactly how good it had been before Devil screamed in his face like Angel when she feels like she’s being starved.

Steve pushes against him.

“I’ll do all the work. You were real close to coming before, just let me help.”

Bucky huffs, long suffering, but Steve’s not wrong.

Bucky rolls onto his back. Slowly spreads his legs. Looks up at Steve, who’s still flushed and hopeful. His dick does look good, hard against his abdomen, dark red and slick with lube and precome.

Bucky wants it. He wants it badly. He wants to see his legs over Steve’s shoulders, to feel his dick slide back into him and open him up. He wants to roll his hips against Steve, feel him slide deep inside, take him hard until he’s coming, crying, and an absolute mess.

But recompense must be made. Bucky looks down at his own dick, half-hard against his thigh.

Slowly, he sinks his hands into Steve’s hair, his long, lovely hair. Bucky could spend hours running his fingers in Steve’s hair, touching it, stroking it—and pulling it. He grips tightly, and leisurely, inexorably, directs Steve’s head down. Steve’s eyes go dark, pupil dilating, and he licks his fucking lips.

Bucky groans, “Me first.”

His dick is more than half hard now. “Come on Steve, put that mouth to work.”

He twitches his hips up, watching Steve’s eyes track him.

Bucky knows he looks good. Dick slowly hardening, fattening up, standing out from the dark curls. His thighs are spread, thick and muscled, and he sighs when Steve grips them, pulling them a little further apart and running his hands up, curving around his hips. His hole, still slick, his skin flushed and shining with sweat, his hair dark, waving against the pale sheets.

Bucky licks his own lips. “Suck me, Steve. Make me come.”

He shakes Steve’s head a little, feels his body go limp and pliant. Bucky directs him, pushing his head down.

“Open up, come on.”

Steve opens up, obedient.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart. That’s so good.”

It is. Freckles stark, pink mouth opening wide, hungry and docile, tongue flicking out.

“Keep it open, yeah, that’s good.”

Steve takes his dick like he’s trained for it, opens wide while Bucky pushes in slowly. Steve’s mouth is hot and wet and his face is blissful. He’s hungry for Bucky, sucking and licking, pulling off to mouth at his hips and bite at his thighs, and then sucking him down again. Head bobbing, eager.

Bucky comes embarrassingly fast, crying and gripping his hands in Steve’s hair while his body convulses, pleasure shooting through him. After, he’s sleepy, the liquor and the orgasm mingling, making his limbs limp and yielding. He rolls over though, onto his belly, pushes up a little onto his knees, rubs his cheek against the sheets. 

“Mmkay, you can fuck me now.”

Steve laughs, long and low. “You sure you want it like this? Me behind you?”

“S’okay. You’re in me, around me. M’ inside you. Can’t get away from me. Always know it’s you, now.”

Bucky’s speech is slurring. He’d pat Steve if he could, pat his hair, his cute ass. He feels almost drugged, lazy and hazy with pleasure. Steve strokes down his spine, hand curving possessively over Bucky’s ass, thumb sliding between his cheeks.

Bucky sighs at the feeling of it over his hole, not pressing in, just waiting. Anticipation rolls through his belly.

“C’mon, Steve. Fuck me, do it good. You said you would.”

( _Make me feel it, make me remember you. I want it. I want you, want you so much_.)

He’s shocked to find tears in his eyes, the sheets damp against his face.

Steve laughs again, wicked and low, as he presses the head of his cock against Bucky’s hole. Bucky breaths deep a couple of times, and wills himself to relax. He’s still slick from the lube, and on his second breath Steve slides in easily. Bucky cries out. It’s intense, borderline too much, post orgasm. It’s still good, so fucking good. “Oh, fuck, yes. Steve! Want you, want you so fuckin’ bad, just you.” 

Steve groans and fucks him again, hips moving helplessly now, shoving himself further and further into Bucky, hands firm on his hips. Coming quickly, deep inside him while Bucky’s ass clenches around him. Bucky moans as he feels Steve jerk inside of him, the heat of Steve’s release.

“Jesus.”

Steve kisses his hair. “Hmm.”

“You’d think you’d figure out a fucking condom sometime, s’disgusting.”

_he loves it_

“You love it,” Steve says easily.

“Mhm.”

When Buck falls asleep that night, he doesn’t dream, for once.

And he doesn’t dream for a long time afterward.

When he dreams again, weeks later, it ends in screams.

_War. Not a war he’s fought in, that he can remember. Rubble, burning buildings, and the screams of civilians. Robotic spiders spilling out of buildings and over the rubble. Long, delicate limbs easily traversing the rough terrain, spitting a poisonous, wicked substance that that causes skin to burn, stone to crumble. A hint of a spark and then flames. Bucky’s lunging forward, there’s a particularly large one, and it’s coming up on Steve, coming up fast. Steve’s trapped under a beam, struggling to get free._

_Oh._

_He’s lying on the ground, burning pain in his arm. Then he’s screaming, screaming, and screaming. The pain is incredible, but he still manages to crawl, smashing at the legs of the spider, bringing it crashing down on top of him._

_Earth 2028 – the Cabin_

Bucky wakes up, throat sore and noise surround him and _fuck_ it’s him, he’s screaming. Devil is screaming too, a high pitched, eerie sound. Bucky scrambles out of bed, the barest second to yank on his jeans and lurches towards the T. rex, fingers brushing his hide.

And the two of them vanish with a pop that hurts Bucky’s ears. It’s fastest transport he’s ever experienced, incredible pressure-pain all around him, senses gone dark and then.

They come through in New York, into hell.

Bucky recognizes the neighborhood, near Steve’s apartment. His blood runs cold, and Devil raises his head to the sky, roars again.

_Steve._

Steve had been out on patrol, it’d been his night, but he’d joked about being back early when he’d talked with Bucky. Bucky had been on speakerphone while Steve fussed around getting ready. Gathering his axe, the shield, trying to whistle. His efforts only produce a wheezy, unmusical sound that nonetheless delights Devil.

Bucky had gone to sleep with a smile on his face. Steve was supposed to be on leave again, next week. H was supposed to come home.

He's got to find Steve.

Screams rising in the wind, the hint of fire. A subtle crackle and the smell of smoke. The sound of Devil, roaring, already in the distance. 

Bucky takes off running.

It’s a blur, later. He can’t even fully articulate what, who had been attacking. Tall, reptilian beings with long, flickering tongues dripping with poison, armed with long swords and strange guns emitting glowing beams. They’re fast, leaping in and out, and they let out a high, eerie screaming laugh, seeming to enjoy the fight and the blood. Bucky has a vague memory of thrusting his knife into one and then another. Seeing a crowd of them feeding, long tongues sliding into wounds.

Arming himself and using one of their guns until it clicks dry. Avoiding the rest, once his knife breaks, until he can get his hands on one of the swords. Its balance is different, he has to shift his weight to compensate, but he cuts his way through. The screams are dying down now, he sees less and less of the lizards. Now there’s blood to be followed, the pale red of the lizards and the darker red of what he knows is probably human blood.

An alley, poorly lit.

 _Christ, they’re so fucking far away from home, how did Steve even get out here_?  
  
It’s way outside of Steve’s zone, barely in any zone at all. But this alley borders a whole row of apartments, families and children, and Bucky knows exactly how Steve ended up so far out from his district.

They’ve had Turkish coffee and baklava at the little shop around the corner. Strong and dark and sweet.

Blood, dark and pooling, pale mixing with bright scarlet. Devil, muzzle raised to the sky, a dark silhouette against the bright neon lights as the lizards retreat in their small, skipping space ships.

Steve, lying still _too still_ on the pavement.

Bucky fumbles at his pocket, eases his fingers inside with shaking hands as he staggers forward and lets the sword loose from his hands, falling to his knees.

Glowing green, lit up. Calibrated for Battleworld

He’s carried some with him, ever since he’d known. Ever since Steve had refused to go back, he’d been scared. He’d been waiting for this. Waiting for Steve to call him on it. Bucky had carried a vial in every pair of jeans, in every jacket pocket. Tucked into the drawer of his nightstand, and Steve’s, and hidden in the kitchen.

He’d even pushed a vial into Sam’s hands, made him promise.

_“I can’t...I can’t do it again Sam.”_

_You’d do it, Bucky.”_

_Bucky had sighed, corrected himself. “Yeah, Sam, I could do it. I don’t want to.”_

Now, his hands move over Steve, on autopilot. He’d dialed Bruce almost right away. No response yet. No 911 services, out this far, in this district. There’s a reason the Avengers are all doing medic training now. He flicks to the next call in his list. Sam. No response, but hell, the whole city is a clusterfuck tonight. He’s probably busy. Carol. Voicemail.

Bucky’s hands move over Steve, taking his pulse. Too fast, thread. Counting breaths, also too fast, too shallow. Lips turning blue and blood, so much fucking blood. Bucky feels nauseated as he looks at Steve’s side. What’s left of it. The white of bone, and so much meat, slowly turning purple as the poison works through him. His leg is not much better.

Bucky talks while he works, tries to keep Steve alert.

“Steve, baby, where’s Scott? You guys were supposed to be together.”

Steve coughs. “Went for help. Safe with Devil.” Bucky would roll his eyes, if he wasn’t about to burst into tears. Devil is a marvelously clever beast, but even he can’t render first aid. As though he’d been summoned, Scott popped back in, wild eyed, panting.

“They’re. They’re. On their way, whole city.” Scott looks terrible too, face bruised and swollen, suit torn. “I’m sorry, they surrounded us. My suit jammed up, the frequencies of their guns interfered until I could scramble it. He was protecting me, trying to keep them from getting back to the apartments.”

Bucky nods absently, Scott’s words dropping on him, rolling off like rain. “How far out?”

Scott looks pained. “At least twenty minutes. Maybe more.”

“Strange?” Scott shrugs, helpless. Bucky’s mind spins, running calculations, the amount of blood pooling, the depth of the wound, how long it had taken Steve’s last injury to heal. He passes a hand over Steve’s hair, staining it red.

Steve coughs. “Bucky. dearest. I’m so...”

“Shhhhh. Steve, I’m gonna send you back.”

Steve shakes his head, eyes going wild “No! No, Buck. No, please. Don’t. I don’t want to.”

“Sweetheart, you gotta hush. Keep breathing, okay, best you can. It’s going to take too long, you can’t heal enough.” Even now, Bucky can hear fresh screams, alarms and the scent of fire rising from a different part of the cities. The lizards hadn’t left, just relocated, and Bucky knows with sick certainty that any help will be too late. 

The outside world falls away. All Bucky can see is Steve, his beloved face.

Bucky leans down, and gently, so gently, he presses his kips to Steve’s forehead. Pushes the bloody hair away. Presses his lips to Steve’s and feels them going cool. Tastes the blood.

Tastes the ash.

He’s crying suddenly, so hard he can barely see.

“Steve, I love you. I love you so fucking much and you need to live. You can’t die on me.”

Steve’s crying too. Silently, his body shaking and clean tracks tracing down his filthy face. He nods, barely. His eyes never leave Bucky’s face.

Bucky kisses him again, so gently. This time, he feels Steve’s lips move faintly under his. He tastes the iron and the salt.

Heartbeat slowing. Breath coming faster, gasping. So much fucking blood. Bucky puts the vial in Steve’s hand. Steve tries to help, fingers twitching feebly, and Bucky wraps his whole hand around Steve’s, squeezing until the vial cracks from the pressure. He can feel Steve’s bones creaking.

The slow, fine shattering of glass and the brilliant glow of green. Steve’s mouth moving, shaping the word _love_ , and then _love you_ and _scared_.

A bubble of red spilling down Steve’s chin.

Bucky doesn’t see the rest because there’s a familiar pressure in his ears and light searing his eyes. When the light dissipates, Bucky’s alone on the pavement. Devil is gone too, the bodies piled around them the only memory of his presence, of how hard he’d fought for Steve. 

Bucky wants to curl up and cry. He wants to wallow in his grief. But, despite his surety in Bruce, he’s afraid for Steve, afraid what will happen to him. He realizes, suddenly that the line had picked up, and can here Bruce’s tinny voice.

He brings the phone to his ear. His voice is hollow, a hundred miles away. “He’s gone.”

Silence.

“Was he hurt?”

Bucky laughs. Sobs. Makes an ugly noise he didn’t know he could.

“Oh, he was. Saw parts of him I’d never wanted to again.”

“ _Shit,_ ” Bruce swears.

Bucky cries a little more.

Can you get here?”

“Yeah, I can, I think.”

He’s not sure, actually. He’ll figure it out. Dial tone in his ear. 

Bucky pushes to his feet, shoves his phone back in his pocket. 

Scott is shaking, _shock_ Bucky thinks, absently. “Can you get home? Or to HQ? Somewhere you’ll be safe without backup?” 

Scott nods.

“Go, then.”

“What about you?” 

Bucky grins. He knows it’s not a nice one, all sharp edges and menace.

“I’m not breakable.” Scott flinches, and Bucky tries to gentle his voice.

“Go report, Scott. I’ll be fine.” 

Scott pops back out, an ant carrying him away

Bucky starts walking.

Tastes the blood on his lips and feels himself sink.

Feels winter rise to wrap around his bones. His heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -Steve is injured badly during battle, warning for graphic descriptions of his injuries  
> -more general violence during battle


	14. interlude 3 - swim the warm waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> ableist language  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Vormir_

_Warm water, lapping quietly around him._

_Drifting, a bit as the water pulls him, with a cool breeze on his face._

_Steve’s eyes fly open and he tries to sit up._

_Spluttering, flailing, as he goes underwater. He manages to swim back up and get his head above water, and coughs as water runs from his mouth and his nose. The water is so warm, clear amber. He can see the black sand beach and a small brown bird, a sand piper._

_It’s pecking at the beach grass in shifting shades of deep plums, pale lavender. The inscrutable gaze makes Steve feel curiously uncomfortable as he treads water_

_He laboriously swims to the shore. He’s only a few feet out, but it seems to take forever, and he pants for breath, struggles to catch it properly. There’s still water in his eyes and his vision is blurred, no matter how he blinks. Finally, the sand is under his feet, shifting, sliding, dumping him down face first._

_He grimaces, feeling the gritty black sand grate against his face and into the palms of his hands. The gull tries to hop on him, pulling at his hair. He flails and pushes himself up to his feet, spitting sand and feeling his sodden clothes pull at him. As soon as he’s on his feet, the bird takes flight, wings dark against the amber sky. He looks around, frantic, but there is no one._

_He’s alone_

His head bows forward and his mouth is sore with disappointment, with grief.

_He’s failed_

“Am I...dead?”

The sky pulses and warms. Slowly, the landscape dissipates. Grass shrivels and water rises into droplets, mixed with sand and warm around him. Steve hangs in the air, suspended in a hailstorm of gritty sand and warm water, and then he’s dumped unceremoniously on his feet. Onto hard, familiar stone.

He’s back.

But he’s still alone, and his vision is still blurry and his heart is racing, skipping in a way that it hasn’t since 1943.

“Oh God. Oh God.” 

Steve pats at himself, feeling his breathing coming faster and faster.

His vision is blurry, his heart is racing, and his hands run over thin legs and arms. Through the folds of his suit he can feel his ribcage, prominent and curving hard into his own hands.

The shield lies in front of him, shattered.

Steve crouches, feeling the ache in legs and feet as he folds up. He focuses on breathing, on being calm. Slowly, he comes together. He still can’t draw a full, proper breath, and his heart is still a little too fast. It’s erratic, and there’s an ache in his spine and feet. 

But, it’s okay, he can adjust, learn to live with it again. He’d pictured this, had imagined it as he’d fallen, but it’s still a shock. He’d never forgotten his original body, but time had certainly dulled the reality of it.

Methodically, he strips himself out of his tac suit. It’s too big, tangling around his legs and hanging over his hands. Underneath, he had had compression tights and a long-sleeved top.

He can’t stop from grinning a little. He wears them tight, probably too tight, and they’re stretchy, with plenty of give. They still feel okay and he can push the legs and sleeves up. Even after tightening the laces as much as he can, his boots are intolerable, nearly sliding off with each step. Carefully, he kneels and undoes each set of lacing, slipping the boots off. After a minute, he removes his socks too, because they’re sliding off anyway. With long, bare toes and shriveled skin exposed, he wiggles his feet for a minute before carefully placing the boots next to the shattered shield, laces tucked in.

After another minute, he takes a shard of the shield, a small piece from the center, where the star would have been. Slipping it into a pocket, he begins the descent.

It takes a long time.

It takes a long, long time.

It’d taken Steve — no, _Captain America_ hours to ascend, battered by memories and ghosts. Steven Grant Rogers takes nearly twice as long, even without the ghosts.

The air is soft, but even so, the steps are difficult to navigate. H often has to stop and catch his breath. The loose shale cuts his feet, and he begins to bleed into the stones.

He keeps moving on. He doesn’t know what he’ll do at the bottom, but he feels compelled to go. What else will he do?

He begins to sweat, and curses at the disgusting feeling of wet compression gear and hot, sweaty skin. The pain in his feet is incredible.

_Down. Down. Down. 3 steps. One more. Just one more, okay? Sit. Breathe. Again. Okay, a few more steps._

He falls into a fugue state and then suddenly, he’s at the bottom of the steps where he’d started, where he’d lain and cried like a child.

He stops and stares, wordless.

Then he’s running, bloody footprints a trail behind him, and he crashes full on into Natasha. _Natasha._

Fucking Natasha, who’d been perched casually on a large stone, legs crossed.

They’re hugging, and laughing, and _god_ she looks just as she ever did, maybe bit more careworn around the edges. There are fine lines at the corner of her eyes, but the familiar scent of grapefruit clings to her hair, and the faint scent of gun oil clings to the rest of her.

“God, Natasha. I _missed_ you. What is this? Are we…”

He hesitates. Doesn’t want to speak it into being.

Natasha pulls back from him. “I don’t know. I was with Clint and then this.”

She trails off, a new sharpness tightening her jaw, “Did we do it?”

He touches her hand. “Fuck. Yes, but we lost you.”

It’s too much, too big for the moment. He tries to pull her back into his arms, but she fights him, suddenly seeming to notice that he’s a few inches shorter than her.

“Rogers! What is this? Is this you?”

He scuffs his foot. “Yeah, uh, well, I didn’t need Captain America anymore.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you bring a ship? Or something? To get off this rock?”

“Uh.”

“Steve!”

“I didn’t exactly plan to come here like this!”

They stare at each other a minute more and then they’re talking over each other while they’re sitting on the rocks. Steve can’t quite escape the feeling if he blinks or looks away, she’ll disappear. They sit, knee to knee, and catch up.

“I fell.” She said, simply, when Steve had asked. Her eyes had said more

_falling, falling_

_pain_

_floating, in time and space, warm and eternal_

”I fell, and then I rested. For the first time in a long time. It was peaceful.”

Steve’s recitation of the events after the time heist makes Natasha frown at him.

Natasha frowns at him. “Can’t ever just follow orders, huh?”

Steve sets his jaw, stubborn. “I’m a free agent. Sure, we came up with a plan, but…”

_I carried it out the only way I could, the only way I might be able to fix it all._

She pats him, absentmindedly. “I get it, I get it.”

They talk and the light shifts, moving from across the sky. Eventually, Steve starts to shiver. He’s absent about a hundred and sixty pounds now, of both muscle and fat. The later it gets, the more he feels it.

He stands up, flaps his arms, and walks around briskly, doing goofy looking calisthenics while Natasha watches from her perch. For once, neither of them had a plan, an idea. Nothing.

Steve had been trying not to think of it, but it’d been pushing at his brain. Natasha’s too, he was sure.

He’s here. He did it. Brought her back.

No way off. No way home.

So, he paces. As he goes, he shoves his hands into the slim pockets of his tights. Pockets meant only to hold the smallest of items while doing exercise.

And freezes, running his fingertips over the small, hard object he finds in there.

He muses, half to himself, “What have I got in my pocket?”

Natasha’s head snaps ups, gaze intense.

Steve’s fingers tremble slightly, as he withdraws the object. The entire plateau lights up with a glowing orange light.

They explode in a cacophony, talking over each other.

“Holy _shit!_ Steve, is that it?”

“Uh, the soul stone? Yeah, I think so.”

“Fuck, put it down!”

“I’m trying!”

He is trying. Steve had immediately flung it away from himself in a panicked frenzy, remembering Bruce’s arm, remembering Thanos. But rather than flying away, it had hung suspended, and then zoomed right back at him.

Steve has enough presence of mind, later, to be grateful that no one but Natasha had seen his frantic dance to avoid it, or the high-pitched noise that came out of him when it flew right at his face.

“No, no, no no no no!” He gestures wildly at the glowing stone. “I put you _back_ , you are supposed to be up there!”

He looks at Natasha with wide eyes, trying to ignore the stone slowly tumbling through the air around his head, tensing every time it comes close to an ear.

“I put it back! I swear, I put it back.”

“Well, clearly you fucking didn’t! Since it’s right there!”

“I dropped it! It disappeared, it disappeared right when I…”

_died_

The stone leaves off circling Steve, and zipping straight to Natasha, bounces excitedly up and down in front of her.

Steve, feeling distinctly surreal and a little ridiculous, puts on his best Captain America tone, all authoritative and commanding.

“Stop it!”

A pause. The stone blinks out of existence.

That night, Steve and Natasha sleep on the rocks, huddled for warmth. Steve thinks he might have been foolish to send it away so quickly, but it’s too late now.

In the morning, the stone is back in his pocket.

This time, Steve and Natasha make the journey pack up the steps, all the way to the edge of the cliff. The shield is gone, and so is Steve’s abandoned tac suit. Steve, wincing all the while, takes the stone and hurls it back into the abyss.

They go back down the stairs. Steve flops off the final step panting. And swears when he feels a familiar weight drop into his pocket.

This lasts for longer than Steve can comprehend. He’d worried at first that he and Natasha would die here, starving and dehydrated.

But the whole goddamn planet is a liminal space. Even though they’re hungry from time to time, thirsty, restless, or sometimes cold when clouds pass over the rocky shore, they don’t change. The only constants are the two of them, the stone, and their attempts to return it.

They throw it into the abyss a dozen more times. They bury it under a pile of rocks, deep into the ground. Each time, it shows up again, nestled into Steve’s pocket or spinning slowly around Natasha’s head. Sometimes, when they wake up in the morning, it’s resting between them.

Finally, one morning, Steve is near tears in sheer frustration. He’d shake the stone if he could, shake it until its secrets fall loose.

“What do you want? What do you want from us? This is where you belong, this is your _home._ ”

As much as a stone can have a home.

“No!”

Steve and Natasha freeze, eyes wide. The voice is high pitched, breathy, echoing around them.

Words are coming out of his mouth, very slowly.

“No?” He’s angry. “What do you mean, no? This _is_ where the soul stone belongs! I came here to return to it to its place.”

“No! Done with Vormir. Bad vibes.”

“Well,” Natasha drawls wryly, “you did pack the place with ghosts and spirits. Between the whole ‘sacrifice what you love,’ and the great stone cliffs, it’s a damper on anyone’s mood.”

“Live here now,” says the stone as it flies back into Steve’s pocket.

“Oh no. Oh, hell no. You can’t live in my pocket! I can’t have an infinity stone in my pocket!”

Steve looks around, wild-eyed.

“What if? What if I change my pants?”

“Oh my god, _Steve,”_ Natasha groans. 

The stone, it doesn’t laugh, exactly. But, the air shimmers around them, a ringing of bells that somehow manages to convey amusement.

“Will figure out.”

As though to illustrate its point, the stone shoots out of Steve’s pocket again, whirling around, and then disappears into Natasha’s hair. And then, back into Steve’s pocket.

“Moving around, no problem”

“But? But, why?”

The stone emerges again, though that seems to make no difference for its ability to ‘talk.’

“You fucked up.”

“Wait, what?”

The profanity, said in the high, light voice, shocks Steve, along with the accusation. It startles a giggle out of Natasha.

“We _fixed_ everything. We didn’t ‘ _fuck it up_!’ That was the whole point of all of this! The time heist, leaving the Snap, going back! Coming to this godforsaken place!”

Steve’ getting angry now and his hands ball up into fists as his face grows red, and his breath comes short.

_fuck that asthma, it’s definitely back, definitely real, not even a scrap of his post serum self_

“Nope.”

Steve let out an inarticulate noise of fury and the stone laughs again.

“Calm down, haven’t fixed body yet.”

“There is _nothing_ wrong with my body!”

“Not good for space.”

“Space?!” Steve yelled, conveniently forgetting he has in fact travelled through space before.

“Listen, you —”

“Never mind. Explain now. Humans, don’t get. Nothing _wrong._ ”

“Yes.” Natasha cuts in. She lays a hand on Steve’s arm. Steve, who looks ready to fight an infinity stone.

“An explanation would be helpful. We’re a bit lost.”

The stone sighs, a shivering kind of noise that Steve can see raises the hair on the back of Natasha’s neck.

“Universe is not balanced. Little things, here and there, can be fixed, or ignored. Big things, souls in wrong places, souls disappearing, going all over, this time stream, that time stream. Not good.”

The stone flicks in and out of sight, and then bounces and splits into a stream of tiny lights before coming back together.

“Already bad. Some souls are anchor souls, but went too soon. You.” It bobs at Natasha, who looks bemused. “Others. Then, Thanos. Then, Avengers. And More Avengers. Multiverse very unbalanced right now.”

Steve sits down. His lips feel numb, cold. “But. But.”

“We tried. We _tried_ to fix it all.”

“It already fucked up, Avengers make it more.” The stone sounds kind, almost. The bells are warm and deep. “You tried hard. Your intentions were good.”

‘A for effort! Give these folks a trophy! The universe knows you tried!’ Steve feels distinctly dispirited.

As the stone continues, its language is getting better, easier to understand. Or, he’s getting better at understanding the Stone, catching more than one word in three. And, it becomes increasingly clear that their efforts to fix their own personal corner of the universe resulted in widespread changes elsewhere.

Their view of time had been too simple. They had looked at it like a river, something they could drop a stone into, and then pull out. Or a tree, branching.

Yet, it’s clear now that time is so much more complex. It’s countless rivers and streams, an _infinity_ of trees stretching high and roots digging deep, tangling together in a messy, inscrutable ball of lives and time, as well as the spaces between. One can be plucked, or even two. A very few can be twisted together. But too many unbalance the whole edifice.

“Steven Grant Rogers. Natalia Romanova.”

The stone sounds serious now, formal.

“You are no longer of your time. You are roots that have been cut away and replanted, allowed to grow into something new and different. You cannot go back, at least as you were. You are both more and less, and would not easily fit back into place. You were not meant to die, and yet you did and you live on, regardless. Your souls have shifted, the balance has shifted.”

“But, you can continue to _be_. You can correct the wrongs, those done by your people and by others. You can—” 

The language breaks down here, but Steve gets the gist of it. They can continue to fight, in a different way. Keep fixing the timeline. Helping people.

But he has to ask.

“We can’t go home, at all? Ever?”

He fumbles at his side, and Natasha puts her hand into his, unasked for. It’s unusual for them to touch like this, but it feels right. Her skin is cool, fingers calloused.

The stone hesitates. “Perhaps. For a short time. At the _right_ time. You could not stay. Your loop, has ended. You can be more, or you can be nothing.”

Steve feels the truth of it. He can already feel that he is different, that falling into the abyss and waking in the warm, amber water has shifted and changed something immutable inside of him.

Natasha squeezes his hand.

The stone’s tone is softer, now. “Think on it, for a time. It is not an easy decision to make.”

Oddly, the stone sounds hopeful. Or perhaps eager, as it continues, “Hope that you will travel with me. Lonely, for a long time. And your souls are _right_ , I’ve been waiting.”

And Steve staggers, at the depth of loneliness, the longing. A lifetime of waiting and being used to extract cruel sacrifices, being used for purposes beyond its own, and at the last, put back on the shelf.

Faintly, the most delicate ring of chimes, tickling in Steve’s ears. “You are not the only one to have changed beyond your original purpose.”

Then it winks out and Steve and Natasha are left holding hands. In the end, it’s an easy decision to make, for both of them.

Steve’s never been one to give in, to lie down. He’s still got some fight in him. Natasha, too. He does think longingly of sad gray eyes and a tight set mouth.

 _I’m sorry, Buck_.

He can tell, when he meets Natasha’s gaze, that she too is thinking of home, of the people she’d left.

They keep holding hands, gripping tight, when they call the stone back. And when it winks back into existence, they share their decision.

It seems to _know_ , can read the balance of their souls, and it explodes into a shower of light. Neon and deep orange, the lightest peach, and every shade in between. Steve gasps, as he can feel _something_ tickling at his mind, almost a knock. 

It’s familiar, warm and wrapping around him and he thinks, “ _Yes._ ”

He gasps as it wraps around him, inside him. It’s a gentle pressure in his chest, a tingling in his fingers and toes, a warm, giddy feeling in his belly. It’s the gentlest thing he has ever experienced. It’s an exploration, a series of questions. He answers, each time, affirmatively. In all his long experience, it’s the gentlest transformation he has undergone. At the end, the light coalesces and the stone drops into his hand with a small plop.

He’s still Steve. Not Captain America, not anymore. But his heart is beating steady and slow. He can draw a full breath. He can see Natasha’s face clearly for the first time since he came back. He feels ready.

He’s dressed, not in his increasingly disgusting compression garments, but in a brown jacket, the leather soft and worn. His pants are dark, loose, cut to move easily, and his boots fit well. Natasha is attired similarly, in shades of black leather and dark gray.

And he feels more. Like his soul is bigger than his skin, like it’s reaching out of his own body. Reaching for _something._

A final flash of light and the shard he'd taken from his shattered shield disappears, only for a new shield to drop into his hands. It’s weighted perfectly, and the edges are razor sharp, and the surface is an endless, shining abyss. As Steve stares into it, he has to pull himself back. He feels like he’s going to fall right in and then keep falling.

Beside him, Natasha slides a glaive into a harness.

_Ready?_

They exchange glances. Nod to each other. Steve watches orange swirl through Natasha’s eyes and light up the blond tips of her hair. Watches it shiver over the blade of her glaive. Then it dissipates as if it’d never been.

Briefly, he wonders what he looks like.

There’s no more time, because _oh_ there’s a hook in his chest now. A pull under his breastbone, and he’s stumbling forward into a run, Natasha right beside him. Space tears open in front of them, a gleaming orange portal opening to reveal green grass over endless hills, under a blue sky.

They run through, straight into another world and another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -ableist language - the soul stone tells Steve he will 'fix' him since he no longer has the serum. The stone does clarify it is to make him more resilient for space travel.


	15. chapter 12 - super heroes come to feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes to Battleworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV note - I've tried to avoid more than one POV per chapter given the potential for confusion with so many Steve's and Bucky's, but I broke my own rule this time. The first two bits in italics (in New York and Battleworld) are Planet Hulk Steve's POV, which is hopefully clear from the context. 
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> violence, grievous injuries/pain
> 
>   
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_ Earth 2028 - New York _

_ Steve slowly swims back up to consciousness. He can hear Devil’s familiar roar and feel the concrete, hard under his back. It hurts when he coughs. He can feel the pain in his ribs and taste the iron in the back of his throat. If he cranes his neck he can see downwards. _

_ oh. _

_ Grievous injuries, he’s had before. But none so dire, recently. Certainly none since his healing factor had left him entirely, since he had been warped and made worse, in some ways. _

_ His hands are wet with his own blood and he’s dizzy, head spinning. His body is heavy, so heavy. He tries to move his hand, to call out. _

_ The sky is above him, the night black with neon lights and the small, hovering discs of the creatures who had come from elsewhere. _

_ When he comes to again, the sky is empty, but his vision is filled with Bucky.  _

_ “Bucky,” he tries to say. He can feel his lips moving, but he doesn’t know if he’s made a noise. He can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his head. _

_ Bucky is so beautiful. _

_ He’s crying. This Bucky, his now, cries often and easily. Steve loves that Bucky never has to say a word, Steve can see every thought he has, clear on his face. If he could move, he’d take Bucky’s tears. Pull him close and feel them soak his shirt. Touch his tongue to Bucky’s cheek, taste the salt, taste the grief. Feel Bucky's body shake against his, absorb his pain. _

_ But he can’t move, and so instead he watches clear gray eyes turn red, feels the damp on his own face, and sees the vein stand out on Bucky’s forehead as he chokes on the force of his sobs. So like when they make love except that Steve can feel his fingers being pried open. He can see the orange flow of light and feel his hand closed around a slim, cold tube. He knows,he can feel the chill inside him. He finds he has enough words for this, and he can hear the little, ragged, “no, no, no” falling from his lips. _

_ Bucky’s face, still tear-damp, has gone remote and cold with his jaw set. Only the shine of his gray eyes and the faintest tremble of his lip betray him. This part of Bucky, too, is beautiful. This hard, cold center of him, that sleeps and rises, is intensifying now, and moves to protect Bucky, the soft, sweet surface. _

_ Steve nods his head, infinitesimally, the muscles of his neck straining. He’s not even sure he moved at all. _

_ Warm lips against his. A whisper of love, one that he rouses to, strives to return to. He knows his lips are shaping empty syllables, his brain desperate for the oxygen he’s not getting. Not enough, hasn’t been enough. _

_ The crush of glass. _ __

_ Steve’s gone, back in the void, and it’s as terrifying as he’d remembered. Pressure and noise and pain. _

_ oh the pain, the pain in his side and his leg and his ribs  _

_ All of it is as if he’s going to be torn apart. He finds he has enough left in him to scream, scream and scream as he’s unmade and made again. The void watches him _ _. _

_ Battleworld 2028 _

_ He rouses again, once, briefly.  _

_ His body is somewhat whole. Ribs are knitting back together. Slowly he moves a hand to his side and finds that he can no longer feel things best left under the skin. But he’s cold, and even as he feels tissue move and crawl, itching as it replenishes himself, he can feel water surrounding him, pressing in on him. He can feel the pressure in newly reknit lungs, already straining for more air. _

_ Cold trickling down his throat and filling his nose. Light is above him, illuminating the water, fractured and radiating while dark tendrils of plants sway in the current. _

_ He’d been weightless once, floating and drifting. Before. _

_ When he loses his eyes again, he can feel himself floating in the warmth, in the sunlight. _

_ A long, hazy afternoon. Bucky had splashed him, had teasingly pushed him under and he’d coughed. _

_ When he’d come up, sputtering, he’d been face to face with his other Bucky, with both of them. They’re all floating together now, legs tangling. Steve can feel two sets of lips pressed to his cheeks, cool and damp. He can feel the sun warm his hair and the back of his neck. _

_ He smiles and feels the water pull him back down. _

_ Earth 2028 - The Cabin _

Bucky pulls on his black compression gear, wiggling into the leggings and pulling the snug shirt over his head. Bruce’s voice washes over him and for once, he’s thankful for his memory. He’s thankful he’ll be able to recall this conversation later, when he can focus on it.

He’d left New York in a rush. Strange hadn’t been available but Wong had opened a portal for him, stumbling down the stairs in soft looking pajama pants, sleek chest bare and dotted with small bruises. Bruises at which Bucky would have cast an appraising glance had he not been in a measured rush to return home.

Mentally, he runs through Bruce’s information while he checks over the time travel equipment. Various gauges and switches to calculate atmosphere composition and relative pressures, the force of gravity, and the level of radiation. Pockets to hold and activate the particles are all neatly welded to a long, smooth cuff that fits into his suit, or can be worn separately. 

“That’s important, Bucky, you  _ can’t stay too long _ . The level of gamma on that planet, extrapolated by Steve’s tissues, is incredibly strong. It could change you. It could kill you. It might kill you anyway.”

“How long?” His voice is cool, measured.

Bruce hesitates. “Two weeks? Maybe a little less.” 

Bucky had nodded, considering. “And the location?”

“I’ve calibrated it as closely as I can, based on physiological data from Steve and his personal energy signature. I hope it gets you close to him, if not to him. But, no guarantees.”

Bruce produces a familiar looking scanner, a black box with smooth rounded edges, and Bucky takes it obligingly.

“This too, I calibrated, like we’ve done with the Infinity stones. Hopefully, it will help you track him if you don’t end up nearby.” 

Bucky nods as he puts it around his neck and securely tucks it into his shirt.

There’d been other instructions, other data. Steve had drawn a little, mostly cartoons of Devil, of Bucky and Bruce and the chickens, but he’d drawn maps too, along with landscapes of Battleworld. If his memory had been anything like the other Steve’s, they’d been perfect depictions. Bucky was willing to bet he could use them as a more than fair guide.

Then Bruce had been shoving a pack at him, along with one of the time traveling suits, and had cleared out to go check the platform, calibrating it and powering it up. Bucky had found himself alone in the lab.

He hasn’t always armed himself to the teeth to travel to the past. Hell, at one point, he’d been blasé enough that he’d gone in jeans and t-shirt under the requisite suit. But if all goes well, he’s descending into Hell itself, and he wants to be ready.

Tactical gear and body armor. He doesn’t often use it anymore, but he still keeps it in good condition. His hands work automatically to wrap the soft well worn leather around himself, to fasten the buckles and adjust the fit as he tucks loose, dark pants into high-laced boots. The feel of the laces, digging into the skin of his hands. His fingers turning white as he laces them firmly, systematically.

Holsters. Harnesses strapping over his chest and around his waist and his thighs, even his calves. Fingerless gloves sliding over his hands. A scarf, tied loosely around his neck, made of fine woven, darkly patterned fabric. Dark-tinted goggles shoved in a pocket. 

Intellectually, he knows it’s all comfortable, lightweight, and tailored to fit him perfectly. Still, each strap tightening and each garment settling into place feels heavy and restrictive, so unlike the light, comfortable clothing he wears now.

The Soldier had awoken when Steve had fallen, had carried Bucky home and had lingered in his mind, waiting, watching, and ready. He can feel the Soldier becoming alert, taking over, running the data, calculating the mission, and neatly swinging open the door between them. Still waiting, but preparing.

Bucky’s happy to let him do it, to relinquish the driver’s seat. For the moment, at least. He’s been content doing the odd data finding missions for Bruce, helping train the kids, and rehabbing Steve. Doing time stuff with Bruce. He’d never wanted to fight again, to arm up, and to load himself with weapons, knowing he'll probably need them all.

Bucky’s been dancing around it, running up and down the blade, and running over it. Doing everything but facing it head on.

He’s in love with Steve fucking Rogers. Again. Different life, different man, same story.

Once again, Bucky is going into Hell for Steve. He can feel the Soldier’s strong approval ( _ mission accepted),  _ feels him settle into place with each strap tightening.

Weapons and other supplies next. Here, he asserts himself, lest he end up with the entire armory strapped to his back. Knives, mostly. Ammo makes him nervous when traveling in time, too unpredictable. He limits himself there. Powder’s gone soggy in the damp, or become supercharged, and he’s always half-expected to have it blow up on him. As backup, he takes a couple of pistols that are lightweight and easy to aim. A rifle, too, just in case. 

Minimal amounts of food and water, along with Steve’s maps, a first aid kit, and all the assorted assists for navigation in foreign territory. Very minimal clothing. He won’t be a spring daisy, if he uses the suit the whole time, but basic hygiene is accounted for regardless. After a moment of hesitation, he picks up his sword. He’s proficient enough with it, and Steve’s own skills had told him that a bladed weapon with more reach would be useful.

When he touches it and feels the hilt in his hand he remembers Steve, remembers hot hands on his body, the clang of steel, and the vibration under his hands. He remembers, and decisively sliding the sword home, he straps the sheath to his back before pulling on the suit. 

This suit is different from the earlier models. The first suit, the clumsy, white and red one, Bruce had junked almost right away. Later models, when Bucky had first started travelling back, had been less bright, less bulky. Bucky suspects it has to do with the designer. Tony had always had the urge to over-armor, overprotect his loved ones, and he’d been able to see that, even if Steve hadn’t. Tony had never been able to resist a contrasting color, either.

Bruce favors sleeker designs, more lightweight and understated. He views built-in features as failure points and tends towards more external tech. Bucky is sure that, too, is some comment on Bruce’s psychology. After all, he rarely has armor of his own when he wades into a fight. 

This most recent suit feels like an upgrade from both. The material is whisper thin, effortlessly settling over his tac gear, molding itself to him and his assorted weaponry. The helmet is less constrictive, and the material is all in unobtrusive shades of dark gray and black. The suit easily compresses and Bucky has plenty of room in his pack for both his own, when he’s done with it, and extra for Steve. 

_ he doesn’t dare hope, he can’t think that far ahead right now _

Packing finished and armed to the teeth, Bucky drifts through the house once more, letting the memories roll through him before turning his feet to the Platform.

Bruce is already out there, running a familiar, if long neglected, routine. Muttering and swearing, he activates each component and begins programming the path on his laptop, checking over each circuit and switch.

Bucky climbs up on the platform. He’s eager to go, but unwilling to rush Bruce through the activation sequence. Bucky has no desire to see this go wrong on a technicality. He pats at his hair and Bruce snorts from behind his laptop screen.

Bucky flips him a middle finger. He’d braided his hair tightly against his head and pinned up the remaining tail, and the helmet fits easily over his hair, for all that his fingers tremble very slightly.

It’s been years since he’d gone anywhere significant in time. He still remembers that first time he’d seen it used, so many years ago, after Tony’s funeral.

_ Steve’s clean, sharp profile, thick blond hair, jaw clenched tight _ .

Waiting, he remembers the last time he’d traveled back.

_ “Bucky? Bucky!” _

_ Hands had patted at him, large and green with neatly trimmed nails _

_ “Bucky, you can’t go back anymore. It will kill you, and there is no point!” _

_ Strange’s voice had usually been so cold, nipping at Bucky’s bones. Then, he’d sounded almost sympathetic. The unfamiliar timbre had been enough for Bucky peel his eyes open and wince as he’d tried to sit up. Every inch of him had ached, even his eyelids as he’d propped them open. _

_ “Mr. Barnes, I have looked into the past. Again and again, I have looked. I must strongly advise you against continuing this. That particular branch has been clipped.” _

_ Bruce, again. He’d gone even bigger, greener. He’d done that still, with stress. The contrast with his voice, high with worry was as strange as it had ever been. So too were his reading glasses, propped on the top of his head. _

_ Bucky had known that later, Bruce would look for them everywhere, until Bucky would pluck them from the top of his head and offer them up with a wry smile. _

_ “Bucky, you’re going to kill yourself. I didn’t realize, not until Strange looked back. We keep trying to push you into something that doesn’t exist anymore.” _

_ A chill had run down his spine and Bucky had been on his feet before he’d realized it, had been up in Bruce’s face. Bucky’s had usually been cold, especially after a trip back, but he’d hot then, boiling over and pushing into Bruce’s space, his shaking hands on huge shoulders. _

_ “Doesn’t exist?!” His voice had cracked. “How can he not exist? He is real. He is.” _

_ Fuck, he’d been crying then. He’d done that way too much, back then. His emotions, when he’d let himself run close to the surface, had bubbled over uncontrollably and more often than not that had ended in tears. Tears of frustration, of rage, of sadness, and rarely, of joy. _

_ Bruce’s hands had been gentle as they settled over Bucky’s, quelling tremors. They’d been friends then, had moved past friendly strangers, but Bruce’s hands had still surprised Bucky. He’d been unable to look up, hadn’t wanted to see Bruce’s face. Hadn’t wanted to imagine what had been happening on Strange’s face. Strange, who had had more patience than Bucky could have originally imagined for this mission. _

_ “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t understand.” _

_ He’d trailed off, hating the soft, weak sound of his own voice. _

_ “I don’t understand. Steve is real? How can his timeline be clipped? Am I losing my mind?” _

_ Gently, patiently, Strange had explained. _

_ “Your mind is no more lost than it normally is, though that is not saying much. It merely means that that particular time loop has closed in on itself. Functionally, it no longer exists. You can no longer travel there, using the particles. You will tear yourself apart. Mr. Barnes, you must accept that Rogers is gone. The ‘why’ of this, the particulars, are beyond even my comprehension. The time stone is offering no illumination. I cannot explain why you can no longer go, but to continue is to die.” _

_ Bucky had argued. He’d screamed and yelled, but Bruce and Strange had been implacable in their joint refusal to allow him to go back in time to Steve’s last coordinates. Bruce had been kind but implacable, calmly presenting the data and promising to keep researching. He’d shown Bucky the calculations. Paging through the results of the hundreds of tests on Bucky, on the platform, and on the data, Bruce had shown him that his body was tearing itself apart in his efforts to return to Steve and drag him back home. _

_ Strange had been less kind about it, but no less intractable, with his reports on Bucky’s body, the stresses it had suffered, and the ongoing strain. Finally, Bucky had retreated. He hadn’t agreed, had still thought he’d be able to talk them around, but he’d known when he was beaten, at least for the moment. _

_ Secure in his room, alone at last, he’d slowly peeled off the destroyed armor. His whole body had ached. It always had, afterward. Even with the serum, the ache had gone cell deep, plaguing him for days. That day, the pain had been particularly bad. The suit had been smoking, burning him when he’d come through. He’d frantically scrabbled to get it off, leaving chunks of burned fabric and his own flesh had fallen from his arms and legs, the helmet flung away to roll slowly in a half circle. Bruce and Strange had argued over his head, until Bruce had had the presence of mind to check him for life endangering injuries. _

_ “This doesn’t make any sense. It should be—” _

_ “It’s not, and to orient on something non-existent…” _

_ Bucky had tossed the stinking, charred armor out of his room, slamming the door shut behind it. He’d planned to deal with it later, or Bruce or Strange deal with it. He’d been unable to do it then, unable to face them again.  _

_ He’d already ditched his shirt and boots, leaving him in his black compression leggings. The bruises had already been healing and cuts had been closing. He’d known he’d regret it, but he‘d been unable to bring himself to shower. He’d curled up on his bed and rubbed his cheek into the soft, cool pillow. _

_ He’d thought he’d been close that time. Aiming had taken a lot of time, a lot of trial and error. Many jumps to unrelated times and places, but eventually he’d zeroed in on the right time and place. _

_ Bucky had punched at his pillow and flopped over. The coordinates should have been right. He’d timed his jump so carefully, but it had been like the other times. Worse than the other times, dropping into the Hydra base in 1949, into gunfire and chaos with the blue light of the Tesseract-powered weapons and fucking Nazis everywhere. Then that same feeling of being both pushed and repelled, and he’d been back on the platform, dazed and smoking after a body-searing jolt through time.  _

_ He’d fallen asleep as memories of bond hair and blue eyes, of strong shoulders and long slender fingers ran through his dreams. He’d despaired of ever seeing them in life again. _

And he hadn’t. At least not his Steve, the little Stevie Rogers he’d grown up with, had loved. 

Bucky shakes the memory off. Despite Bucky’s resolve to carry on, that had been his last trip to 1949. He’d been weeks in healing.

Now, he’s going through time and space again. He squares his shoulders and stamps his feet, feeling the solid platform under his feet.

“I’m ready.”

Bruce nods, flips a switch.

Bucky grits his teeth and waits for the wave to hit him.

The sensation is the same as always. A flash of light, hanging weightless and suspended for a brief instant before rushing through space and time with forces tearing at his body, the delicate tissues of his nose and eyes streaming even through the protective suit.

He’s hoping, like always, that they’ve done everything right. All the calculations and the dosing, correct or at least close enough. Right on schedule, panic, the breathless conviction that they haven’t done it right, that he’s doomed to another liminal space, this one actively hostile. He chokes out a sob.

_ Battleworld - two weeks remaining _

“Ughn.”

The sound punches out of Bucky’s lungs as he falls heavily onto a stone platform, just narrowly avoiding a heap of crumpled brick. He lands hard, on his face, and has to scramble up in a most undignified fashion. Staggering, he lands on one knee, as a second, strangled noise escapes him.

The pressure of the intensity in the air pushes at him, pressing in around him and  _ gnawing _ at him. The gamma feels almost like a living creature twisting through him and poking at the very cells of his being. Twining with his serum and flowing over the metal arm.

He gasps and pants, feeling his eyes and his nose water. He dry heaves while he tries to get himself under control, to adapt. Oddly, his own serum feels like a living thing pushing back at the gamma. Asserting itself.

Finally, he achieves a breath in and out again. Controlled.

Another.

A third.

He swipes at his eyes and nose, lets out one more long, shuddering breath, and then pushes back to his feet. The sensation is still intense. Almost too much, but he can bear it. He knows, with certainty, that Bruce was right.

To stay here, long term, will tear him apart or change him beyond measure. He can’t even imagine how Steve did it for so many years. At that thought, he looks around hopefully, as though Steve might jump out at him. Hoping that their calculations were correct, and that he’s been beamed right through to where he needs to be.

As if it’s ever that easy. He’s completely alone.

Sighing, Bucky taps at that countdown to activate it, and checks the other readings. Nothing too unexpected. Gamma levels through the roof. The infrared shows some beings nearby, but not too close. He’s on the top of a parapet, and can see for miles. It’s quite a view.

No Steve, though, and the scanner lies quietly against skin.

“Definitely  _ not _ close,” he complains to the air as he looks around.

He knew, intellectually, that Battleworld was a stitched together thing, the result of a dozen planets and more imploding and coming together, forming a new, bizarre tapestry. Seeing it from a great height is an entirely different experience from thinking about it. Bucky can see harsh sand and mud, with stark shades of mustard, pale dun, dark red stretching out before converting abruptly into woodland. Turning ninety degrees, the sand shades abruptly into tundra, a frozen, rough ground lapped by a gray ocean, itself far off in the distance.

The sun is high overhead, brilliance reflecting off the snow but absorbed by the sand. The sight is a bizarre juxtaposition that has him stretching his eyes wide. He could trace the line between if he wanted, walk right along it.

At his back is endless air, a straight descent into a deep pool, something tentacled and sharp toothed twisting just below the surface.

Next, he checks himself over. No injuries and no immediate threat. The clock is ticking, so he carries on. Unlocking his helmet, he collapses it, tucking it away before stripping off the suit. It’s surprisingly resilient for all its thinness, and it compresses easily into his pack. A quick sip of water, a check over his weapons.

The scanner has begun to softly hum. This is a place Steve has maybe been before, but not recently. Bucky has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly when Steve was here last, but he tucks the scanner back in place and begins to look for a way down.

The parapet is a jagged top to the tower, covered in broken stone and shattered brick with a dry looking moss growing over everything. He has to pull at it, wincing at the high, sonorous whine it gives off despite its dead looking appearance. The scrape of the brick is easier to bear, and eventually, he reveals a descending, crumbling stairwell.

The downward path is long and the trail is unpleasant, equally likely to weave down the edges of the tower and as it is to go through the tower. No shortcut presents itself and he’s got to step carefully, jumping over more than one stair that crumples beneath him. The air is hot and Bucky regrets his commitment to aesthetics, his choices in black and gray tactical gear. Once he’d briefly flirted with brighter colors, but at the end of the day, sneaking through a dark, fetid room, hunting and searching with his knife at the ready is what he’d been meant to do.

Bright colors and soft waving hair are not conducive to that.

Bucky catches himself before he can do down that train of thought. He’s both. Has been. Will be again. He’s just gotta…gotta get through this, get his guy, and get home.

Still, the journey though the tower is terrible, even compared to what he’s seen. If he’d ever doubted that Steve, Steve of the gentle hands and bright laugh, and the little frown while he reads was capable of terrible things, was just as damaged as Bucky, this served as proof. .

Violence and rage and despair are carved into every corner of the tower. Bodies lie everywhere, subject to a few flies, large and multi winged. He’s no forensics expert but, even he can recognize Steve’s marks. The slender cuts of the shield. From the front, the broken fingers, jaws, and ribs. The large deep cuts of the axe, splitting many of the bodies nearly in two, many of them missing heads.

They all bear Steve’s marks, the evidence of an axe and his shield. It’s interesting, that even as the very air, heavy and oppressive, seems to have worn at the building, the bodies seem somewhat preserved, and Bucky can practically  _ see  _ Steve. 

See Steve roaring, crying out, and swinging his axe and his shield.

He wrinkles his nose. It smells disgusting, greasy and dank with the scent of old blood. The stench gets worse the further down he goes, as the bodies are piled thicker.

Halfway down, he finds the throne room.

He can recognize the Red King easily enough. Headless, enormous, wrapped in rotting fur and tumbled from a throne of skulls. Next to him is another body.

Bucky lets out a shaking sigh, and crouches, careful not to let his knees touch the ground. Doc Green. His features are decayed, but Bucky had often thought he’d recognize Steve Rogers anywhere and this holds true.

He _ knows _ him, can feel him even as he winces at the enormous wound, splitting him from sternum to pelvis, hurting at the shocked, frantic look on his face.

He can’t stop himself, reaching out one gloved hand and gently passing it through unruly blond hair. Steve, Doc Green, had manufactured terrible violence, against his counterpart, against Steve.

Yet all Bucky feels is terribly sad as he pushes back up to his feet and carries on. The dead cannot hold him, not when he might still recover the living, but he remembers that face. Over the next few days Bucky does a lot of walking. Really, a truly epic amount of walking.

He’d stood at the intersection point between the tundra and the dessert. He’d gone back through the tower to the ocean, and when he’d faced the desert the scanner had ticked up ever so slightly. So he’d gone that direction.

The desert is seemingly endless, despite the fact that he’d seen the end with his own eyes. He falls into a routine quickly enough. Walking until his boots fill with sand, or until he’s too thirsty, or until he realizes that he’d missed a subtle change in the tone and intensity of the scanner and he has to backtrack.

Or, until he’s attacked, which also happens fairly frequently.

The first time, he’d waved and tried to greet them, to reassure them. He’d tried to reason with them and assure them of his intention to pass peacefully, but the great, horned beings had attacked anyway. They’d stood a few feet over him, and the horns had twisted from their heads, their shoulders, and along their arms and legs, sand colored and pale. Eyes, too, pale like the sand, the teeth strangely large and blunt, with the same dried moss growing over their bodies and down their shoulders and over their hips and legs. Bucky’d winced, remembering how he’d had torn it from the stone earlier. 

Bucky had cursed when his pistol had immediately misfired and he’d had to use the sword sooner than expected. He’d never envied Steve the shield, but hell, that would have been useful too, as he twisted away from yet another pike aimed right at his face.

The horns are too dangerous to be close and he needs the reach. He gets good, eventually, at detecting what they look like hiding under the sand in the strange moss. Even so, he only sneaks past them half the time. He’s too obvious in his dark leather, standing out against the pale sand. *

He walks and he fights, and he fights and he walks, and he watches the counter tick down. It feels like the blip again, but danger level. He never resets and it never ends, with only the briefest of pauses when he catnaps with one eye open before starting over again. Despite the fatigue and the hunger starting to push at him, he hasn’t dared stop, even though the thirst and the heat send runnels of sweat down his brow and the spine of his back.

Until finally, the scanner starts going off, really and truly, in an annoying medley he recognizes as one of the songs Steve sings when he’s really engrossed in a task. Bucky snorts because Bruce had to have done this on purpose. Now it’s just Bucky and the desert and Steve’s song.

Eagerly, he breaks into a run, his feet slipping on the dune as he goes up the largest sand dune he’s ever seen. When he gets there, the scanner bursts into overdrive just as Bucky can see down in the little valley A brackish pond and strange, twisting trees, a fresh carcass of an enormous deer, covered in shaggy fur with wide, dinner plate feet and by its side, a familiar shape.

“Devil!”

The huge T. Rex sees him at the same time, raising his head and bellowing what Bucky has come to learn is a happy, “Hi! Hello!”

Devil’s muzzle is disgusting, covered in strands of flesh and blood, but he charges up to Bucky and despite the gore, Bucky slips down to meet him. He’s appropriately touched (and revolted) when Devil nuzzles at him, even as he surreptitiously brushes strands of hair and stringy meat off his chest.

He realizes, a moment later, that the scanner had been reacting to Devil.

He tries.

“Devil! Devil, good boy.” He scratches at eye ridges. “Where’s Steve? You came through with him, huh? Where is he?”

But Devil just whines, high in his throat, and increasingly anxious the more Bucky asks, clearly knowing what Bucky is asking, and just as clearly unable to deliver.

Sighing, Bucky turns to the deer. The flank of the deer had been untouched, and Devil lets him carve it and roast it. The water in the pond is potable, though not appealing. Full belly, thirst quenched, Bucky sleeps securely that night, tucked in the shadow of Devil’s body.

When he wakes in the morning, he spends another hour or so messing with the scanner so that Devil stops setting it off every few seconds, doing a breakdown between Steve’s energy and Devil’s. Then he sets out again, trudging alongside Devil.

_ Battleworld - 10 days and 3 hours remaining _

Bucky’s lying flat on yet another dune, belly down. Devil’s behind him, rolling around in the sand, delirious to have his hide scratched fully. Bucky is waiting. He and Devil had marched for hours more but now the weather is changing, just like the terrain. The sand is shifting to brick red and dull orange, and the sky to bright, neon blue. This is utterly unlike the flat, monotonous desert they’d moved through that was all pale sand and gray skies. This blue had made Bucky’s eyes hurt until he’d flipped one of the filters in his goggles, cutting the glare and intensity.

Ahead are storm clouds, mustard dark, swirling and shifting as they reveal and cover the sand. He’s been thinking, trying to decide if they should skirt the storm and try to go around, or maybe go through. Bucky’s not entirely sure where to go next. The sensor has remained quiescent, quiet against his skin, and he’s all too aware of the clock ticking and the vibration of the sand underneath his belly. 

He cocks his head and presses his hands flat against the ground. Feels the vibration grow stronger and stronger, from a gentle buzzing, then rougher, the ground beginning to shake underneath him. He stays low, but calls softly, “Devil?”

A huff, and then the cessation of sound. Devil, going still and quiet below, and now he can hear it properly, a distant rumbling growl, getting closer and louder, with a steady drumbeat in counterpoint. The clouds below clear for a second and Bucky taps at his goggles, zooming in, unable to quite believe what he’s seeing and hearing

The ground is practically leaping underneath him now, and he sways as he clambers to his feet and hears Devil huff. His large, red head pokes above the dune, right next to Bucky. He reaches out, rests a hand on the big nose, feels the huff of warm air.

Below…

“Holy shit!”

A small convertible, visible through the gap in clouds, then hidden again. Not standard issue, thats for sure - painted a flat, matte black, rear boosted, tires oversized, rugged, tearing through the sand with a growl, huge silver grill affixed to the front, sand pouring through it and over it.

At the wheel is a flag of brilliant, tangled red hair, whipping in the wind.

“Holy  _ fucking _ shit, Devil!” Bucky yells, unable to stop himself despite knowing the T. Rex has no idea, doesn’t give a shit about what he’s yelling at, is just waiting for Bucky to move again.

Bucky is sure fucking ready to move. Because, at the wheel is a person. Face is covered with big, round goggles and a cloth mask is warped around their throat and mouth, but that hair...

In hot pursuit is an entire armada of other vehicles, pulling closer and narrowing the gap, gaining on the obviously heavily modified little vehicle. Tanks, souped up sports cars, and motorcycles, all armed to the teeth and swarming with slender bodied, deathly pale humans. 

Bucky’s heart stops and he’s on his feet before he knows it, the ground leaping with the roar of the vehicles below. He keeps his feet, races downhill, sliding and jumping as needed. Devil is beside him, on a collision course for the interception. Devil cuts him off, growling. Bucky hesitates for a just a second at the tail sliding towards him and then he jumps.

He races up Devil’s back and keeping his balance on a fucking running dinosaur is somehow not as challenging as it seems like it’d be. Then he’s crouched, shotgun on his shoulder, sighting in.

It’s been a long fucking time. The brawls before had been just that, brawls. Short and brutish. This is a page out of his old book. No one, and certainly none of these people are prepared for a super soldier, let alone one of his talents. Especially not one riding on a fucking tyrannosaurus Rex.

Devil roars and Buck bares his teeth, taking a shot at the tires of the motorcycles closing in on the convertible. First one and then another, careening into each other. They tangle on the spikes, stick into the terrain, and then ignite.

His mind goes calm and quiet, effortlessly calculating angles

Another shot.

A whole series of perfectly placed bullets.

After he empties the clip, he slings the rifle on his back and pats at Devil. Amazingly, the dinosaur produces more speed. Now they’re in the heart of the armada, bullets zipping around them and screaming, yelling people swinging on poles from car to car. Devil is impervious to the chaos, seemingly only mildly irritated by the hail of bullets. He’s treating the shrieking, yelling warriors swinging on poles like appetizers, delicately plucking them from their perches and daintily gulping them down. The sight makes Bucky’s stomach turn a little, but he sets it aside and leaves Devil to do his job while Bucky does his.

Despite the weight of the gamma still pushing at him, his body responds to everything he asks of it while his mind effortlessly calculates angles of approach, tactics surfacing unbidden as he jumps and lands on the first rig.

Oh, it’s so fucking easy. His opponents are underfed, fragile things clad only in thin leather. They’re skilled enough with their weapons and stand balanced easily, swaying with the movements of the vehicles as they chew over the uneven terrain. Their eyes are lit with fervor, glowing in deep-set, bruised eye sockets. 

They’re no match for him, and he cuts through them like a hot knife through butter, shifting smoothly from knife to sword, snapping a spear over a knee and then turning at the last minute to shove it up under the chin. 

Their skin is scarred, carved even, and as Bucky slides a knife into one man’s ribs, he kicks another from the top of the rig, catching a glimpse of silver lips covering sharpened, gleaming teeth.

“Ahh! Fuck!”

A woman jumps him from behind, mouth clamping at his neck and long, silver nails raking at him. But he’s too well armored, his throat protected by the scarf, and she’s easy enough to flip off and send flying.

Then he’s leaping for the next rig. And then the next, steadily clearing a ring around the convertible.

He kicks a pair of skinny warriors off a motorcycle, ducking one that hisses in his face, spitting. He brushes a knife across the ribs of the second, seeing them both go under the wheels of another rig that is belching fire and a hail of bullets.

Bending low over the handlebars, and the motorcycle is not easy to drive, with the overpowered engine surging underneath him. It’s all he can do to control it, aim it, trying to get close to the woman ahead.

She drives like a demon. They all do. Finally, he has to take a leap of faith, swaying unsteadily on the back of the cycle and mustering all the strength in his legs. With a long, slow breath, he sinks deep, centering himself.

He leaps and he barely makes the jump, scrambling at the back of the convertible where he has to block the sudden hail of bullets with his metal arm before he can pull his scarf down, gasping, “Natasha!  _ Natasha!” _

A shaking hand pulls at oversized goggles, and he’s staring into faded blue eyes, wide with astonishment for a half a second. Then they narrow, calculating.

“Get your face covered! The storm!”

Bucky scrambles in, sliding into the backseat already filled with piles of guns, weaponry, ammo, and even a gas tank. Goggles back on his face, he pulls his own scarf up over to cover his mouth. Then he’s got a rifle in his hand, an unfamiliar model, and he goes back to picking off riders one by one, sighting the aim as he goes. It pulls a little to the left.

There’s a brush of air, and then Devil is beside him, housecat sized. Natasha doesn’t respond at all beyond a sharp intake of breath. It’s too late for anything else to be said because right in front of them is the storm.

Stretching impossibly tall, a great, curling mustard cloud of dirt, sand and grit. Flashes of electricity illuminate its depths, glowing red and orange. Bucky fumbles the end of his scarf free and manages to get it wrapped around Devil’s head. He hisses but accepts it, letting Bucky shove him down in the gap between the seats.

Then they’re in it the depth of it and  _ holy shit _ can Natasha drive. Gloved, slender fingers effortlessly grip the carved skull at the top of the gearshift, changing gears with ease. She smoothly spins the huge, chrome steering wheel through her hands as they fly through the storm.

The storm and the woman are both astonishing, beautiful, and terrifying. Ahead, the storm flashes red and orange, loud in his ears, beating the wind and sand against his face, and the electric discharge lights up everything around them.

Bucky finds he’s laughing like a wild thing while he squints through the clouds at their pursuers, aiming now for tires and exposed gas tanks. He cackles as fire belches from their exhaust and lightning whitens the sky, their exposed skeletons solid against the flash of light.

He can hear Natasha laughing too, throaty as she downshifts into neutral for a second, turning the vehicle into a controlled slide, and then they’re spinning and Bucky picks off three more vehicles, watching them fly into the sky to picked up by the wind, battered by the sand, and fried by the electrical discharge.

They come to a sudden, heartbreaking stop and Bucky’s face to face with another of the warriors with a sharp silver grin. Then his own silver fist meets their face, knocking them away from the car. The engine is belching fire, growling fit to match Devil, and they’re off again. They drive for what feels like hours, and Bucky suspects that Natasha is pushing them through the thickest parts of the storm. 

Bucky loses track of everything except the tasks he is set. Aim, fire. Aim, fire. Shove Devil back down between the seats, growling his own warning. Knife in either hand, or just plain fists when they get too close.

When they get closer, when the engine starts sputtering, and they’re converging again, there is no sight of the big rigs or souped-up sedans. These are tiny, chopped up vehicles. Rusted out Volkswagens with enormous engines and bigger tires, bristling with warriors and spears like some kind of otherworldly chariots.

He can’t hear a goddamn thing over the howl of the wind, but he can see Natasha’s frustration in her body language. At the impatient jerk of her chin, he clambers over the seat and slides into her place as she swings up and out, onto the hood. 

Bucky’s not laughing then. He can hear himself, at least, a constant litany of, “ _ fuck, fuck, fuck.  _ This vehicle is a goddamn monstrosity to drive. There’s not just a gas pedal, a brake, and a clutch.  _ Jesus, fuck _ ! Bucky figures out Natasha’s been manually titrating the gas and oil the whole time, manually cooling the car with careful shifts of fluids into the massive radiator. No, there’s a whole array of pedals and switches.

“Guess there’s no automatic,” he mutters, but he’s managing well enough. The wheel is heavily carved, wrapped in webs with spider etchings. The stick shift slides in his gloved hands, smooth and body warm. Bucky glances up, watching Nat, and he sees her jab her finger at a compass, huge and spinning. He follows her fingers, spinning the steering wheel until she nods. Then Bucky focuses on driving.

He doesn’t focus on the fact that Nat is  _ under _ the goddamn vehicle. He doesn’t think about the fuck-off metal foot he saw emerging from one pant leg. It was highly articulated, locking into place and keeping her planted as she’d crawled over the hood, and then  _ under the fucking vehicle.  _ He’s got to drive, has to attend to the steering wheel in his hand, to the movement of his feet and to the stick shift in his hand. This is a fucking weird car, but he does know how to drive, even if he’s not able to push the car to its full potential.

So, he drives and Nat climbs all over the convertible, somehow working magic with a few tools she yanks from her belt and a tiny syringe of machine oil. Gradually, the car runs faster and faster as Bucky presses on the gas. Devil is growling in his ear ( _ fucking T. Rrx)  _ and Bucky spares half a thought for the idea the little guy is gonna go flying right out. The car is purring now, practically flying over the sand. Bucky just controls the pedals under his feet, keeping the compass pointed towards Natasha’s original direction.

The storm is heavier than it’s ever been. He can barely see, even with his goggles, and he’s choking on the grit. Then Natasha is nudging him and they switch places again, smooth and easy like they’ve done it a thousand times. He’s guarding their retreat again.

And  _ oh fuck _ if he’d thought that they were going fast before, with Natasha’s practiced touch on the wheels, and her feet dancing over the pedals, they’re practically flying with the force of the wind, skimming over the sand as the lightning crackles overhead.  _ Fuck _ , she’s following the wind, allowing the wind to boost them just that much more. Then fire pours from the radiator and she cuts the wheel, hard. Abruptly, she cuts the engine completely, letting the storm whistle over them, and through them. Bucky can hear the chariots race past them, and then turn and go back, shouting to each other in an unfamiliar language.

They wait. Even Devil is quiet, barely breathing. Natasha is perched on the hood, ready while Bucky stays alert in the back. Time stretches away, endless as he looks through his scope, watching and waiting for anything to move. Fucking Devil falls asleep, right where Bucky had shoved him down between the seats.

Night starts to fall and the storm still rages on around them, but Bucky can wait forever. It’s one of the things the Soldier does best.

Finally, Natasha climbs back in the driver’s seat. She flicks a few switches and then they pull away, quietly. The engine that had been belching fire and growling, had been practically shrieking, that engine is completely silent. Like Bruce’s hybrid that has to beep lest it scare the shit out of pedestrians.

This part, somehow, is the most tense. They don’t talk, and Bucky barely moves. Instead, he keeps scanning the horizon through his scope, waiting while the clouds slowly turn from mustard to orange. Natasha drives slowly, the car barely crawling over the sand. Eventually, the lighter orange clouds give way to pink, and then to a brilliant red, before fading away, achingly slowly. Bucky keeps his finger on the trigger, eyes shifting constantly, and Natasha keeps her foot on the gas.

Finally the car rolls free of the soft sand, shifting onto hard packed dirt. Natasha changes gears again, the engine revving slightly and then giving way to a low purring. The clouds give way, and the sky stretches overhead, dark and endless. Bucky can see the stars, yet another unknown sky, with more constellations he’s never seen.

The tension leaves Natasha’s body, infinitesimally, but she still keeps the lights off and the engine quiet. The convertible rolls over the road for another hour or so, until trees begin to cluster by the road. Finally, she relaxes. Not completely, because she doesn’t stop driving, but she does push the goggles up on her face and pull the mask down. 

“They probably won’t come this far. We’re out of their territory now.”

Her voice is raspy, a little rough, and now that they’re uncovered, Bucky can see her eyes are faded blue, a stark contrast to her tanned, worn skin and pale, unfinished looking eyelashes and eyebrows. It’s unmistakably Natasha, but unlike the woman he had known briefly on Earth, the one with a smooth flirtatious voice and equally smooth skin, even after years on the run.

She looks him over as he clambers out of the backseat and slides in beside her.

“Bucky fucking Barnes, rumors of your demise appear to be exaggerated.”

He’d switched to a smaller pistol, and he leaves his hand wrapped loosely around it while he gets settled, suddenly uncomfortably aware that just because this is Natasha, doesn’t mean it’s  _ Natasha _ , that she can be fully trusted.

After all, to hear Steve tell the story, on this planet Strange was a merry accomplice to his captivity and torture.

“Um. Uh,” he stammers.

_ Excellent, Barnes. Way to engage with a potential enemy/ally. Stymie them with your wit. _

She lifts a single eyebrow, and Bucky grins, suddenly. He can’t help it. He and Earth Natasha had had history. First in the Red Room, where she’d been one of many, unremarkable and interchangeable, another small girl clone notable only for her bright red hair and particularly intense demeanor. Later, she’d been a target, a regrettable but necessary casualty.

After the Accords, she’d been a friend, of sorts. They’d been uneasy with their shared history at first, but they had eventually settled into a level of comfort. He hadn’t gotten to stay goodbye, hadn’t ever imagined he’d outlive her.

The girls in the Red Room, they weren’t like him, not exactly. No super soldier serum propping them up, but they got something that pushed them into the not quite human territory. It made them faster, a little more resilient, with better reflexes and healing. More durable.

This Natasha. Superficially, she’s nothing like his Natasha and yet, the sharp intelligence in her eyes and the sardonic twist of her mouth is just the same. Bucky decides to be blunt.

“Pretty sure you know I’m not from around here.”

She doesn’t respond, tapping her fingers against the stick shift and glancing at the compass. The road they’re cruising down is getting darker, more heavily wooded. She snorts.

“Yeah, you’re a little pretty, a little soft, for here. Definitely haven’t been here long.”

Bucky bristles a little, but she just laughs, low and throaty, resting a hand on her own thigh for a minute, a thigh that Bucky is sure is fully metal under the loose, dark trousers. 

“Not that you can’t fight, you and your dino there are tough shits.” She turns solemn. “I appreciate what you did, jumping in to help me. Not many here would do that, especially against the Asgardians.”

Bucky startles, though he tries not to show it. “Asgardians?”

Natasha nods, measured. “Gamma changes us, Barnes. If you didn’t know that before, you’d best prepare for it now. That pretty face of yours, cute as it is now — it gets inside of us, turns us all inside out.”

She waves a hand. “It takes, and it gives, and from some of us it takes more.”

She pats at her thigh again, absently. “The Asgardians, they were okay at first. But, the gamma warped them, changed them, and took their long lives, their strength. Not immediately, but with each successive generation. Smaller, weaker, sicker.”

“They’re zealots. Their line is ending, but they can’t face it and can’t fix it in any meaningful way. They’re warped and damaged. Maybe if they got out of the desert, it’d go easier for them. The desert is a harsh, mean place, and they all live together in their fortress. Easier when you kill anyone who disagrees.”

“They turned on their own leaders, their own gods, and their own ideologies. They hate what they’ve become, but they can’t control the changes. Instead, they trap their own gods, praying to metal and speed, and glorify dying in battle more than they ever did.”

She hesitates, and it’s like she’s going to say more, but she doesn’t.

Nat turns the wheel, and they rumble up a steep hill, turning on the switchback, the engine growling as it bumps over stone and rock, and over broken branches. Turning off into a secluded copse, the trees stretch dark and forbidding overhead, like Bucky had never had that brief glimpse of a star studded sky.

There’s a knife at his throat, and when he swallows he can feel it. And he knows, despite her tough words, the hand steady at this throat...despite the fact she sees him as soft.

He lifts his chin a little, let’s the knife under Natasha’s ribs settle a little deeper, enjoys the shock as sh elooks down.

“Alright  _ Bucky _ tell me what you’re doing here.”

Bucky feels a little smile, flirting at the corner of his mouth “I’m just here to get my guy. I’ll get my guy, and then I’ll go.” Unspoken  _ if you try and stop me, I’ll slide this under your ribs. You’re bigger, but I’m faster, stronger. _

Her eyes narrow. “Your...guy?” Bucky decides to be frank.

“Steve. I’m here for Stee. You know him?”

“Not...personally. But Barnes, Steve Rogers disappeared years ago. He blew up Doom’s entire fucking power base, took a swan dive, and no one’s heard from him since.”

More quietly. “We wish we had. Steve gave us hope. He gave  _ me _ hope.”

Bucky swallows and he knows his whole heart is shining on his face. He hopes it’s not too clear in the dark.

“He  _ is _ my hope. He’s here again, and I’m not leaving without him.”

Natasha pulls the blade away, suddenly. Kills the engine and hops out.

“You want to know why the Asgardians were chasing me?”

The topic change makes his head spin and he just nods, following her out of the car. He keeps his knife close to hand. Devil huffs sleepily in the backseat. Some guard dino, but apparently if Bucky wants to calm Devil down, he just has to take him for a long drive, draping him in a blanket in the backseat.

Now that they are both standing, Bucky sees that Natasha is definitely taller than he is, easily standing at least six feet tall. He is newly aware of how broad her shoulders are, of the hard muscle flexing in her arms. She moves easily on the fully articulated metal leg, and Bucky can’t help but watch as he has a somewhat personal interest in such things. It’s lightweight, hollow looking, a construct of long metal struts and well greased joints. It’s heavily carved to match the car, webs and spiders.

She catches him staring at it and in return, deliberately stares at his own arm.

He laughs. “Got hit, got it replaced. Friend of mine built it. It aches a little, some days, but mostly it does what I need it to do.”

She taps at the metal, and it rings a little.

Bucky clears his throat. “What did you steal from them?”

It’s all he can think of, to send out such a large group. An insular, fiercely territorial group who’d chased Nat for hours, and that’s just what he’d seen. She must have taken something of true value.

Her face hardens. “If you want to use that term for it, sure.”

She stomps to the back of the car. Pops the trunk.

“I  _ stole _ their food. They tore their gods down, and now they build them back up and drain them dry, feeding on them to fuel their own half lives. I stole one of them. I stole  _ her _ .”

Bucky finds himself staring at a woman lying curled in the trunk. For a moment he thinks she’s dead, but no, she’s breathing, albeit very slowly, her chest barely rising and falling. Her clothing is tattered rags, a ripped apart sweater and loose trousers. The light shifts, falling across her face.

“Fuck, Brunnhilde?!”

It makes sense, now. Not the gentle way that Natasha is touching Brunnehilde’s face. This timeline, this planet, is certainly different. But, the Asgardian pursuit begins to make sense. Bucky feels his gut heave.

“They eat them?”

Natasha nods. “They take their blood, until they have no more to give.” 

She touches a dark, tangled curl, whispering, “I got her back, though.”

Then she brushes the woman’s cheek. Brunnhilde looks starved, her collarbone stark against her skin, the tendons standing out in her neck. White tattoos stand out in stark contrast against her dirt smudged skin. Her braids are neatly bundled up, and as Bucky watches Natasha continue to fuss over her, he realizes that she must have done that, carefully contained the long braids before hiding her in this trunk and driving so far with her. 

Bucky grabs at her arm before he thinks to be wary and gets a punch in the ribs for his trouble.

“Nat,”he hisses, “Are there more? Do they have Thor? Others?”

He doesn’t know all the Asgardians. Even on Earth, he doesn’t know where the breakdown falls between them, what separates a Valkyrie or someone like Thor from the common populace, or how that would play out here.

Nat’s face goes sad. “We took back Thor and Loki. Some of them are still there. They won’t leave, can’t leave. They still feel obligated to serve Asgard, whatever that looks like. Even if it kills them.”

“Come on, Bucky Barnes.”

Natasha bends, gently lifting Val from the trunk. “I’ll feed and water you, at least for tonight.”

There’s a long, narrow path to follow through quiet trees, and then they enter a neatly hidden cave. Bucky eats Natasha’s rations, bland flatbread and salty dry meat, and gulps at metallic tasting water. He has rations of his own and he is saving them. Even so, he can’t quite keep from imagining what eating gamma-radiated food is doing to him.

He falls asleep at the flickering campfire, conscious of Natasha leaning over Brunnhilde and whispering to her. He hears Brunnhilde muttering weakly back. He pulls Devil close and falls asleep, dreamless, as always on this planet.

In the morning, Brunnhilde is clean and bandaged, taking tiny sips of water from Nat. When Nat jerks her head at the mouth of the cave Bucky finds Sam there.

Not his Sam, of course. This man, too, is inordinately tall and heavily muscled. His wings are  _ real, _ huge and feathery, with a bewildering array of color. Brilliant reds, blues, and cool grays, crisp whites. He’s brusque with Bucky.

“Nat said you were looking for Steve?”

Bucky nods, slowly. “I don’t know where he is..”

Sam tips his head, weighing his words. His wings flutter.

“There was an energy pulse while Nat was in Asgard. Could be him.” Sam hesitates for a minute, then seems to make up his mind. “I’m out of the game, mostly. But, I’ll guide you.”

He points up. “Nat’ll give you the car. She doesn’t need it now.”

Bucky senses there’s more, that there are Avengers here too, though somehow Steve was never a part of the group. Apparently he was more of a distant, vaguely inspirational figure.

It’s well enough; he’s seen Steve’s work up close now. Battleworld is a brutal place. He finds himself back in the convertible, in the front seat. He loads his own pack and helps Sam shuffle Nat’s stuff down to the cave 

“Will she heal?”

Sam waves hand, dismissive. “She’s tough as nails. It looks bad, but they didn't even have her too long, considering. Nat’s a bit of worrywart. Some food, some rest, water, she’ll bounce right back.”

He understands the car is a help as he was barely covering any ground. He also understands that it’s a decoy, a lead away from Nat and Valkyrie. If he’s not careful, if he’s caught, well, who knows what they will do to someone with super soldier serum running in his veins. 

_ Battleworld - 7 days 12 hours remaining _

He drives and Sam flies high overhead, illuminated against the bright sky. They move out of the forest and into another biome, this one marshy and strange. He has to get out to push the car out of the muck, more than once. Devil helps, shifting larger, and pushing his big head against the back.

They're bothered, once. An enormous gator type thing comes out of the brackish water, right next to the road. Devil snarls and snaps back before plucking the entire gator from the marsh and swallowing it whole.

Bucky gasps, “Oh holy  _ fuck! _ ”

They are not disturbed after that. Bucky learns that sure, Devil can get smaller now. But he can also get  _ bigger _ . A lot fucking bigger. It’s a little terrifying.

They sleep. They eat. They drive some more. Sam flies, and they follow.

Eventually the scanner starts chirping again, getting higher and more intense, and vibrating against Bucky’s skin. When Bucky waves Sam down, he shows him the scanner and Sam leaves, grateful to be free of the task with minimal drama. 

He’d shared the story with Bucky, and photos of his family. He’d told Bucky how Sam had gotten them back when Steve had destroyed the arena. His husband, Riley, had come home to him after disappearing, along with their children.

“Never met the guy, but he changed my life. He changed this place, even if he didn’t mean to.”

Bucky had nodded, and stored it up. One more thing that Steve hadn’t seen that he'd accomplished. He’d only told Bucky of his failures, of his transgressions.

Bucky keeps driving, mostly. Sometimes Devil pushes the car and it gets amazing mileage, but all the while, the Bucky can feel it pulling at him.

The gas is getting lower. His countdown is getting lower. The gamma is pulling at him, eating at him, trying to twist into his very cells.

The scanner is getting louder and more insistent by the hour, taking him on a regular tour, of sorts. 

He sees the cabin, and he knows that it’s where Steve and Bucky had stayed. Had lived. It’s burned to the ground, completely devastated. When he pokes in the ash he finds small flowers growing. No poisonous, venom spitting plants or carnivorous creatures trying to eat him

When he stands in the ruined ashes of what had been Steve’s home, he sees, for a bare instant, Steve. A younger, considerably less scarred, more slender Steve frowning as he carefully  sliced fruit on a wooden plank.

Bucky can see the shadow of the man he knows hanging over it. Bucky knows that frown will lead to creases between his eyebrows, creases that Bucky has kissed. That smooth, unbroken skin will give way to pink, shiny scars 

A man behind him is shorter, but broader. He stands on his toes and hooks his chin into Steve’s shoulders, making Steve wince. He can tell that Steve is complaining, from the set of his face and the way he’s waving tha knife around. But Bucky? It must be, it can’t be any other man, not with that huge silver arm wrapping around Steve’s waist. 

Bucky is laughing, unbothered by Steve’s complaints, gently taking the knife from him, cutting the rest of the fruit with easy, practiced movements. Later Bucky tugs him close, pulling his head down by Steve’s bangs. 

Bucky stands in the middle of the ashes and feels his eyes sting with tears. 

Later, they see the Killiseum. He doesn’t go in. He doesn’t need to see that. But he sees the destroyed building, the piles of bricks and dirt. Around the edges and inside are the small markets. He trades some of his dried food for more gas and for some strange fruit that he hopes won’t kill him. He can feel the clock ticking but he buys some dried jerky for Devil, something he hopefully won’t shred right away. 

He knows the clock is ticking down, can see the hours, the minutes, the seconds slipping by, solid red.

He knows he has to hurry, but everywhere he goes, he sees the mark of Steve, of the man he’d been and the life he’d left. The marks of the man he’s become, the one that Bucky knows he is getting steadily, inexorably closer to. The scanner becomes more and more lively. Sometimes it feels as though it’s taken on a life of its own.

It’s not all easy. Bucky and Devil fight a lot. Bucky had felt world weary, tired of battle, well before he'd gotten here. Hell, he’d been done in 194 3 , right after he’d gotten back from Azzano, but somehow, he’d just kept saying yes.

“Yes,” to more battle, more fighting, more killing.

Here he is again. He and Devil barely sleep and barely eat. For every whispered memory, for every vague feeling of connection to Steve, to the  _ Bucky _ who had come before, there are what feels like hundreds of hostile, aggressive creatures and beings.

He ends up using the sword when his knives don’t have the distance, the reach, and soon it become rote to cut his way through a slathering horde of bizarre, frog like creatures, eager to warp their long, barbed tongue around Bucky while Devil roars and snaps beside him.

To be captured by yet another writhing, venomous tentacled plant that he had been sure was just a regular ivy, and embarrassingly have to wait for Devil to come for him, to snap at the roots and roar until the vines shrivel and pull free.

To be ambushed by enormous, lizard-like creatures, to run up Devil’s spine and leap high, stabbing for vulnerable eyes and soft spots between scales.

Bucky winces when yet another prehistoric, oversized crocodile bites at the spoiler on the back of the convertible. The vehicle is frankly not looking its best. Bucky has done what he can with the maintenance, but it seems like every creature they run into wants to bite it or slime it.

In one very unfortunate circumstance, he was quite sure the large, bearlike creature was doing its best to court the convertible, leaving truly noxious fruit in a pile, showing its fangs, and then, well, Bucky’s new to this place, but he knows his way around a dick. The pelvic movements his convertible were subjected to were definitely sexual in nature. 

The bear-thing had a decidedly negative reaction to Buck interrupting its seduction attempts, and Bucky felt a little bad about Devil maybe killing it, so instead they drove away very fast. Bucky couldn’t help laughing that time, even though he felt like his entire life had been reduced to a constant, monotonous routine of killing hostile creatures, following a small, melodious box, and trying to convince a T. rex to sometimes run instead of fight. 

It all slides together in a never ending, exhausting chaos of blood and blades, bizarre noises and strange terrain, the continuous beep and buzz of the scanner, memories whispering and pushing at him.

_ Blade sliding into flesh and blood, so much blood spilling over his hands. Vibrations hard against his skin and brushing blond hair back. Blue eyes, knees cold, kneeling in the snow. _

Bucky parks the car. His hand is shaking on the wheel and it takes two tries for him to activate the kill switches and to pull some fronds of leaves over it, hiding it. He staggers a bit as he walks, and is grateful to feel Devil beside him, to feel the comforting press of his warm, solid leg. He’s begun to feel distinctly unwell, in the last...hours? Days? Time seems to keep running without him. 

This particular forest skews tropical. He can see little neon creatures out of the corner of his eye. Frogs and lizards, bright loud birds. Prehistoric foliage with great waxy leaves and brilliantly colorful flowers. The scanner is practically screaming on his chest, and Bucky breaks into a slow run, feet moving over vines twisting over the path, ducking out of the way of a flock of small furred creatures, gliding on outstretched arms. They hiss and twist to nip at his ears as they pass.

Suddenly, the forest ends and he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, Devil skidding to a stop behind him. The wind is whipping at him, eyes smarting with tears, and he’s got to fumble at his goggles, sliding them into place. He stands swaying, feeling like he’s about to fall right into the sky, into the cold, blue open air warping around him.

Below, he can barely see a spot of water, jagged with ice. He goes to slap at the scanner because it’s practically vibrating off his chest. He’s close, so close. But there is nowhere left to go.

He squeezes his eyes tight, reeling as the sense memory rolls through him.

_ Searing pain in his side and foul breath, hot in his face, and the terrible, slow inevitability of a body broken beyond repair _ .

The scanner  _ screams  _ in his ears.

Nowhere left to go but down.

Bucky opens his eyes. Slowly, methodically, he sheaths his sword. Holsters the pistols he has left, checks each of his knives. He flexes his hands. A slow, deep breath. A second. He opens his arms out wide.

Devil whines, high and concerned

Bucky smiles at him, a little sadly. “Can’t come with, bud.”

Curls his toes against the edge of the cliff

And he falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -somewhat graphic violence during battle  
> -grievous injuries/pain


	16. chapter 13 - to find the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets his guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> Bucky cuts Steve's arm  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Battleworld_

Bucky wakes up flat on the ground, with every part of his body screaming in pain and the distinct, hair raising sensation that he is being watched.

Groaning, he sits up. “Shit.”

The sensor has gone dark and silent. He’s not sure if the batteries have been used up, or if Steve has slipped through his fingers yet again.

“Fuck, no,” he swears, sincerely.

Because when he peeks at the countdown, it’s flashing red, a damning _0:00:00_ rolling across the screen. No wonder he feels so awful. 

He’d become somewhat inured to the constant feeling of the gamma pulling at him, but now, newly awake after blissful unconsciousness, aware that he’s run out his clock, _didn’t even know how fucking long was he passed out_ he can admit to himself that he wasn’t sure how long he’d had left. The last days had passed in a drifting haze, time without meaning, no matter how many times he’d tried to orient himself to the task, to keep his priorities in order.

_Get his guy, get home._

Well, Bruce had been pretty sure it’d be bad to stay too long, but he hadn’t known for sure. Bucky’s not leaving, not without Steve. 

Getting to his feet hurts. He can feel it through his bones and muscles. Breathing is just a bit harder, more labored as the air presses down on him.

Now that he’s standing upright again, not watching clouds whip by him, not taken in by the dizzying blur of height and the remembered sensations of _Steve_ , he’s not exactly sure why he thought a swan dive would be a good idea. Now Devil is up there, and he’s down here. 

Of course, Devil can come down any time he pleases, but communicating that to Devil is easier said than done. 

The sense of eyes on his back, of being watched, is stronger than ever, and Bucky turns, trying to identify where he is. A small copse, pleasant enough. It must be the very edge of the water he’d spotted from above. The climate is cold, much colder than it had been above, with small chunks of ice in the water, frost lingering on the branches and coating the green grass.

He unsheathes his sword, making a few easy figure eights as he feels his wrist pop and then loosen up. The muscles in his forearm warm up, and his shoulder begins to hurt.

In a low, even voice, he calls out (because he has _learned_ his goddamn lesson about assaulting things in bushes after he’d gone headfirst into a carnivorous plant and his hair (and skin) had suffered greatly until he’d managed to cut it at the base and drain out some of the viscous, stinking acid in order to breathe.)

“I know you’re there. Come out.”

He tries to inject confidence in his voice, like he routinely invites random, potentially very dangerous creatures to emerge and engage with him. Well, he has, since he came here.

A pause. More rustling.

“I’m _losing_ my fucking patience, come on out. Don’t make me light that bush on fire.”

A squeak.

Bucky has to stretch his eyes wide, because the bushes rustle a little more, and then a perfectly small, perfectly shaped, fucking _dainty raptor_ emerges. It’s shell pink, it’s eyes huge and luminous with shining, gold tipped claws. It flips up a ruff of white and gold feathers. Bucky has a brief, ridiculous feeling like he’ s run into the living embodiment of some of the fluffier parts of his Pinterest account.

The dinosaur is tiny, appearing delicate. It barely comes up to his waist as it turns its head, one way and then another, baring its teeth and huffing in a gesture he recognizes from Devil. It’s tasting his scent.

_Sergeant Barnes?_

Bucky looks around.

_You are Sergeant Barnes, are you not?_

The voice in his head is soft, giving the impression of shyness.

_Sergeant Barnes, it is lovely to meet you. Steve has been dreaming of you, often. It’s good you came._

Bucky wants to faint. Wants to do a lot of things. Smoke one of the cigarettes he didn’t bring with him. Maybe sit and laugh for a while. Take a nap. Or a picture.

But, he’s all too aware of the flashing 0’s at his wrist. This is the first sign of someone, even if it’s a Pinterest dinosaur, that knows anything about where Steve might be. 

So instead he inclines his head, and says, “Call me Bucky. Please, where is Steve?”

A soft thrum in his head, delicious and tickly. He realizes the dinosaur is laughing in his head.

_Bucky, hello. I’m Crystal. Please, come with me._

Bemused, Bucky follows Crystal down a small, narrow path that wraps around the icy pond. She moves delicately, easily, leaving almost no trace of her passing. The vivid green foliage ringing the pond seems to part for her, the delicate claws leaving the faintest impression in the sand before being washed away by the water. In contrast, Bucky stomps all over the plants, seeing frogs and other creatures go scuttling before him. His boots sink deep into the sand, but soon enough the foliage is getting higher and thicker. Abruptly, their trail disappears between two large, frost covered trees.

Bucky has to turn sideways, and there’s a brief feeling of pressure, of sensation squeezing along his body. They’re still in a forest, but in front of them are buildings. Strangely sleek, modern buildings in a variety of colors, set among trees. Bucky’s knees nearly buckle because he’s suddenly, blissfully free of the feeling of gamma.

Crystal huffs at him. _We have interference radiation here. That makes being here more comfortable. Will you come to the lab with me?_

Bucky follows. There are big buildings and small ones, even buildings that emerge out of the sides of trees, rising sleek and modern. Crystal chatters as they go, pointing out various things

_There is my favorite tree, it gives off wonderful fruit in the spring. There is my mother’s house. She’s on vacation._

Vaguely, Bucky has the sense that the dino has lowered her voice. _She’s on vacation with her beau, but she doesn’t know that I know. That, over there, that’s where Alanna lives, my best friend. The market is there, every other week._

On and on she talks, and Bucky abruptly realizes that his guide is a child, or the dinosaur equivalent thereof.

Soon, they are crossing a pavilion and coming straight up to an enormous, shining building, heavily inlaid with glossy, opaque windows, and sliding doors. There are signs all over, in a language he doesn’t know.

 _The lab!_ Crystal announces. _You will have another guide. I have classes. Goodbye, Bucky Sergeant._

Then she’s gone and Bucky’s feet are moving forward. He’s passing through the sliding doors, into a lobby of an office building. Empty, but an alien one nonetheless, no doubt about that. Bucky stands for a minute, waiting, before awkwardly dropping to sit in an unusually shaped sofa, covered over in a neutral beige and cream pattern. His knees are roughly around his ears, and as he looks around the clean, bright space, he begins to feel even more out of place.

Hygiene hasn’t exactly been a priority, and the longer he sits and waits, the more aware he becomes of the time since his last shower, of just how battered and dirty his jacket and his pants are. He goes to brush them off, but stops when he realizes he’ll just brush flaking, dried ick onto the spotless floor.

Instead, he sets about poking through his bag, looking to see if... _ah, yes_ he extricates a stick of dried jerky, starts chewing.

“Hey, stop it.”

He jerks his legs, because one of the potted plants had sent out a tendril, wrapping it around his boots and twining at his laces.

All the planted pots are ones he’s never seen, in a riot of colors and oddly shaped leaves and appendages. The tendril withdraws, with a wounded little sound, and Bucky hesitates. Seriously?

He picks off a flake of beef, holds it down by his leg. 

“Here, you can have a little bit.”

He tries to make his voice soft and coaxing. Sure enough, the tendril returns, and _oh fuck_ it has a tiny mouth on the end, open and lined with tiny razor sharp teeth.

Bucky is suddenly grateful he’s offering the snack with his metal hand. He _can_ regrow a finger, Hydra tested that, but it itches and given that he’s stuck here, he doesn’t exactly know what will regrow in its place. He doesn’t want to gamble with that.

The tendril snakes out. There’s a faint feeling of suction, and the jerky disappears.

_It is very fond of animal proteins._

The new voice in his head is smooth, rich. Bucky brushes his hands on his thighs, winces as dirt and dust flake onto the couch.

“I have plenty, no problem to share.”

The dinosaur in front of him is larger than Crystal, but still small, maybe weighing fifty pounds or so. Brilliantly purple, fluffy, some kind of raptor. Bipedal, but with longer arms and a more slender face than Devil. Huge, dark eyes that shine with intelligence and humor. 

Still, it is very kind of you to share. James Barnes?

Bucky tries to lever himself to his feet, but has to pause to gently extricate the tendril, which has wrapped its way back into his boot laces. He gives it a little pat and murmurs, “Stay here. Don’t wanna pull at you when I go.”

Once on his feet, he turns to face the raptor. He reaches out, like he’s going to shake hands, and then thinks better of it upon seeing the razor sharp claws tipping the raptor’s delicate looking claws. He settles for nodding.

“Bucky, please.”

_Bucky, I am Darryl._

Yes, that is definitely humor shining in those huge eyes.

Bucky nods again, feels his head keep nodding, like he’s on a string. “Crystal mentioned Steve?”

_Yes, please, come with me. His quiescent mind yearns for you._

Still bemused, Bucky follows, feet moving forward unbidden. They cross the wide lobby and then move through a sliding door. The contrast between the warm, open lobby and the smooth, metallic hallway is stark.

Bucky wants to ask questions. He has so many. But the overarching thought in his mind is locating Steve, _Steve, Steve, Steve_ and it takes effort to push that down.

“How are you...?”

Daryl picks up on Bucky’s confusion. He seems to be able to filter through the confusing array of thoughts in Bucky’s brain. It’s pretty clear that beyond speaking mind to mind, the dinosaurs can peruse thoughts and see dreams. _S_ _ee that Steve is thinking of him._ Oh, God, Steve, he’s so close. His scanner is broken, but he can _feel_ the distance, _feel_ Steve.

_Gamma changes us all, Bucky._

Bucky has a glimpse of huge, hulking dinosaurs in muted shades, with necks intertwined and snapping mouths.

_We were bigger. Not as smart. Gamma makes most here big, aggressive, but we were already that. So we became something else, something more._

Bucky imagines, briefly, Sam with his huge, beautiful wings. The smooth, seamless integration of Natasha’s metal leg. Had gamma given them those?

Steve had been so virulently negative about the planet, he’d never considered positive changes. It’s too much to consider at the moment, distracted as he is by his surroundings. 

Bucky can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. He feels his head turning against his will, back and forth. He imagines he probably looks a bit like a top, head practically spinning as he continues to follow Darryl down the hallway. Shining metal doors slide open and closed, disgorging groups of dinosaurs who resemble nothing so much as office drones, bustling from meeting to meeting. If it wasn't for the absolute, overwhelming urge to get to Steve, he’d slow down and take his time with looking.

Darryl continues to talk, narrating how his species had come here and how they’d built their society. How they’d found Steve. That they’d hoped, suspected, that Bucky would come for him. That they’d felt his brain waves and had sent Crystal out to find him, which would feel vaguely invasive if he wasn’t so grateful.

He can admit a certain degree of fascination is keeping irritation at bay. Darryl is covered completely in soft looking feathers. They’re dark shimmering plum on his back and head, with pale lavender running down throat and belly. They’d be tempting to touch if Bucky hadn’t glimpsed needle-like teeth earlier when he’d laughed, silent and snapping.

Bucky had developed a certain degree of nonchalance around Devil. Have a T. rex puke on your shoes or whine for chin scritches often enough, and you start to see it as an extremely overgrown housecat of sorts. But, here, now. He’s newly aware he is looking at _real, fucking dinosaurs,_ right in front of him.

He’d liked looking at the dinosaur fossils in the museum back in New York, the one time he and Stevie had gotten to go. It’d be nice to go again, see how it’s changed since the 30s. He’d bet Steve would enjoy it. If they could get Devil to stay small, he might like it too. On second thought, it might also feel like a macabre graveyard, with all your distant relatives from another planet on display.

He snaps out of his reverie when the door in front of them slides open. The lab they enter is as clean and modern as anything he’s seen on Earth. Maybe not like Bruce’s chaotic workspace, but not unlike Shuri’s lab. Crisp whites and metallic silvers, neon holo screens. The dinos here are just as bright, almost borderline garish against the austere surroundings, tapping at screens with unhurried efficiency and working at long tables contoured to fit a variety of reptilian bodies.

Steve’s at the center of it all, submerged in a tank sunk into the floor with large chunks of ice and softly glowing blue liquid gently swirling around him.

_He is nearly defrosted. We were waiting for you to finish the process._

That’s weird. He definitely thinks these little guys are more in his head, more in Steve’s, than they should be, but they’re helping, or trying to, and he can’t think of anything to say. Can’t take his eyes off Steve.

Steve’s hair is loose and tangling around his face, moving softly in the water. He’s still in his battered tactical gear. Not the full armor he wears when he goes out with the Avengers, but the long, dark, close-fitting top and loose pants he’d been wearing. He had conceded it was too fucking cold for bare legs. Dark navy and tattered, ripped across the chest and thighs, huge burned out sections. _Oh thank fuck._ The exposed skin, where Bucky had looked straight into Steve before, is healing. In some places, it’s healed entirely. His ribs are in place, rainbowed with bruising. The open wounds are filled in, clean and whole, though the scars are still red and angry. 

Bucky’s legs suddenly go weak, knees unlocking, and he has to tighten his quads and will himself to stay upright. He’d been running on a combination of adrenaline and instinct since the moment Steve had disappeared. He hadn’t let himself think too closely about what would happen if he couldn’t find Steve, if he did and Steve was injured.

Steve and the other Bucky hadn’t exactly had a happy ending, before, on this planet. While he’s pretty fucking good at compartmentalizing, and he’d been able to get himself here, there’d always been the screaming reminder in the back of his head that the other Bucky hadn’t gotten to keep his Steve, had died alone. He’d seen the proof of that.

He murmurs to Darryl, questions pouring out of him now.

“Did he heal himself? What happens next? How long has he been here? How did you find him? Is…”

He trails off, not wanting to ask, “ _Is he going to be okay? Will he wake up?”_

Darryl tips his head, visibly sifting among the questions.

_He has been here several weeks. We found him quickly and brought him back here. Steve Rogers destroyed the gladiator rings. We were popular there. He has done much good. He was known._

A mental flash of the small, bright dinosaurs in cages, fighting in rings, being bought and sold. Kept as pets, with their shining claws and teeth bought and sold, their feathers made into belts and capes,

_With your permission, we will complete the defrosting. He will wake slowly, but he will wake._

“Please.”

The flurry of activity in the room kicks up, dinos moving around the tank, holoscreens flickering on and off. Before Bucky quite knows what has happened, the tank has risen a few more inches out of the ground, and a curved, padded table has been rolled next to the tank.

Darryl pulls a holoscreen in front of him, tapping through a few screens, and then the water moving gently around Steve starts to circulate more quickly. The tank illuminates with a clear turquoise light. Darryl’s mental voice sounds calm as he continues to flip through screens and the final chunks of ice melt away.

_He healed himself, mostly. We helped. He had a...hmm…_

Bucky gets a clear image of a slug with spines. 

_A cold? An allergy? Not sure what the human equivalent is._

Bucky laughs. To have everything that had happened, all the fear he’d felt, reduced to a cold. He finds tears on his cheek and he swipes at them ineffectively

“Can you fix him?”

Two more raptors, one orange and pink, the other pale blue, work together to pass a sling under Steve’s floating body. An overhead lift drops from the ceiling, and then Steve is transferred to the table. Out of the water, his skin is pale and his hair is tangled, covering his face.

_A little bit. We got his body to start healing. But the place that he was living, not here. It scarred him. If he wishes to live there again, he will need treatment._

Daryl waves a claw while Bucky processes that.

_Now we will warm him. The table will gradually heat._

As Bucky watches, Steve is efficiently stripped of the ragged tac gear, and swaddled in blankets. Then he blinks and he’s at Steve’s side, the little raptors parting for him.

Bucky’s hand, usually so steady, is trembling as he reaches out, pushing the matted blond hair out of Steve’s eyes. Steve’s skin is cold and clammy, and Bucky uses the edge of one of the warmed blankets to dry his face, carefully blotting the liquid from his eyelashes. He can’t do much with the hair, but before he can despair of the tangles, a green and gold striped raptor is pushing another warm towel into his hand, and he swaddles Steve’s dripping hair the best he can.

_Bucky, it is time to wait. If his will is strong, he will wake soon._

Bucky looks up, mouth opening to protest. Kindly, Darryl says, _You may wait with him. Just do not get in the way. When you are ready to rest, we will care for you._

Time skips again, and Bucky finds himself seated by Steve’s bed in a chair meant for no bipedal shape. Steve is covered in monitors. The small raptors bustle in and out, checking screens, and pressing gentle talons against various parts of Steve. It reminds Bucky of the first time he’d seen Steve, that first bedside vigil, though Steve undoubtedly looks better now than he had then.

As Bucky waits, Steve goes from blue, to dead white, and then rosy pink. He periodically shivers before settling. He looks like he’s sleeping, chest rising and falling, face relaxed. Bucky tracks the familiar beloved features. The scars, pinker than usual and very shiny; faint freckles. The shadows under his eyes, and the long, long lashes lying quietly on his cheeks.

Bucky had untangled Steve’s hair, a painstaking task without any conditioner and with an unconscious partner. He’d gently rolled Steve’s head from side to side, fingers working at each tangle, and then he’d braided it all. He’d left the tail draped over the edge of the blankets rather than have the damp soak in any further. Braiding had been comforting, a little ritual that he’d missed even in the short time they’d been apart, something he can do for Steve even now.

Bucky toys with the end of Steve’s braid and lets his mind wander. He thinks about his original Steve, back on Earth. He’d never said much to Bucky about going into the ice, or about what it had been like to come out of it, but he knows it had taken him a long time to fall unconscious. Bucky knows Steve had been scared as the water had trickled down his throat and filled his lungs. He knows that Steve had awoken alone, in a new time, and had known right away that his rescuers had tried to deceive him. Steve had come to the slow realization that everyone he’d loved, everything he’d known, had faded into time, passing without him being able to mourn. 

Bucky’s traveled back enough, talked to enough parallel versions, and visited enough worlds to know that there are always parallels, touch points that seem to happen in their lives. How they respond is different, but the main points, those prevail.

He regrets that this Steve, _his_ Steve, now, had had to go into the ice. He’d been happy to know that he’d been spared that to this point. But, if it had to happen, if it’s one of those touchstones, Bucky is glad to be here with him. Glad his Steve is going to wake up warm, with Bucky by his side, and be given compassionate, if unusual medical care.

Bucky twines his fingers into Steve’s. Tracks how they warm, slowly. Thinks about the first time he’d seen Steve, how he’d been convinced he’d die. How Steve had woken, afraid and unmoored. He sits, and he thinks, and each time he blinks, it’s longer until his eyes open again, and finally, he gives in. He scoots his chair closer and lets his head rest against the edge of the bed, fingers still firmly gripping Steve’s. 

Bucky wakes up slowly with fingers in his hair _that damn bird, pulling at his hair, sun hot overhead_ and then he comes fully conscious and relaxes as he realizes that it’s Steve’s fingers, gently tugging at the mess of his braid.

“Mph,” he grumbles, trying to sit up and nearly falling off the tiny, poufy stool he’d perched on.

“C’mon Steve, m’hair is disgusting.”

It is, objectively, quite disgusting. He’d unbraided it a couple times, scrubbed at his scalp and dunked his head in water, but a proper washing is a week and more gone. He’d lost his good hair tie, leaving him with the stretched out pink one, and he’s sure the braid is mostly held together with grime more than anything else at this point.

Bucky sits bolt upright and winces as Steve’s fingers get stuck, calluses snagging.

“Steve! Steve, fuck! You’re awake. Oh, _fuck!_ ”

His words fail him for a second. All he can do is look at Steve, take in his too-amused face, track his easy breathing and then he remembers.

 _Christ, Bucky you had one job._

His voice is smaller than he’d like.

“Were you? Was it?”

He rests his fingertips on Steve’s wrist and counts the beats. They’re nice, steady, not too fast or slow, just where it should be. He redirects.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be with you when you woke up. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

_Didn’t want you to be scared, to wonder where, when you were._

“Oh, Buck.”

Steve traps Bucky’s hand with his other one. “I was, for a minute.”

Bucky’s heart sinks as Steve keeps talking.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel at ease, waking in an unfamiliar location. But, I felt your hand in mine, heard your snores.”

“Hey, now...”

Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand, grip strong and sure, and then wrinkles his nose. “I heard your gentle, dulcet snores, smelled your scent.”

“Steve!”

Steve smirks at him, that wide, sweet smile that Bucky loves, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. 

Quietly, he continues, “Bucky, I _was_ afraid, for a brief moment when I woke here. But you were here with me. It was nothing.”

They sit together quietly for a minute, and then Bucky opens his mouth again, unable to keep it shut.

“I’m _not_ sorry I sent you back.”

Steve flinches and Bucky forges onward. “Steve, I _am_ sorry for the way you went, that you ended up in the ice. I never wanted that for you. But you’re healing up, not dead or worse.”

“Bucky, I agreed, though I fought you. I was scared and did not wish to leave your side. But I would have gone a hundred times, rather than have you see me perish before our eyes. It was a mortal wound.”

Steve stretches. Sensors go off and his bare feet pop out of the end of the blankets, toes curling.

“I feel _good_ ,” he says with wonder.

Darryl enters the lab and Steve startles at the sight of the small, purple raptor, but then relaxes almost immediately. Bucky is not privy to the conversation, but he enjoys watching Steve’s face, always so animated. Darryl examines Steve, briefly, and then begins detaching lines, removing sensors. Steve winces as he loses more than one patch of hair but his face is glowing.

“Did they tell you? That they can repair my serum?”

“Yeah Steve, they told me. Not completely, yeah?”

“Enough that I can go home. Enough that we can be together.”

He’s struggling, pushing at the blankets and Bucky unthinkingly helps him. It’s not like the first time, but it’s close enough, bracing Steve’s trunk and making sure his feet are flat, that the blanket is draped over his groin at a pretense of modesty.

“Bucky. They cannot repair me entirely, but they can treat the...allergy? Cold? Enough that I can live with you, on Earth. The illness was progressing.” 

Bucky nods. He’d known, for all that Steve had tried to hide it. He’d seen the way Steve’s hands had shaken when he’d let his guard down. There had been circles under his eyes, and he’d sweated at night, throwing off his covers only to shiver.

“Healing factor or no, Bucky, if you will have me, I will go with you, anywhere you want to go. I was stubborn before, felt like I needed to prove myself...worthy. But when I lay on the ground, dying…”

Steve trails off and then starts again. “I knew I was dying. I’ve died before, or near enough, and I was glad for it at the time. But this time, Buck, I thought of you, asleep at home and how I’d left you. I thought of all the things we hadn’t done, all the time I’d given up, and all the time I’d hoped to spend with you. I thought of how I love you.”

“And I hoped, that if I was given a second chance, that I’d be able to choose anew. To stay with you, to choose a new path, not blood and gamma, nor the in-between, stolen moments with you, tempered with violence. I want...something new, something kind, something _more_ , the two of us, side by side.“ 

Bucky’s shaking all over, his heart beating so fast he can barely stand it. It’s going to leap out of his chest and land in Steve’s, where it belongs. He collapses a little, against the table, against Steve, burrowing his face into Steve’s neck.

And breathes.

In, out. He feels his legs slowly become solid again, holding their own weight. When he feels a little more settled, he pulls back and frames Steve’s face with his hands, stroking his cheeks.

“You fucking asshole, I love you. I loved you when you went to New York, even though it gave me new grays and an ulcer. I loved you before. And I…”

“I sent you here, even though it broke my heart to do it, because I’d rather have you live without me than die in front of me. I came here to get you, because once I’d sent you, I realized I couldn’t, in fact, live without you.”

He brushes at a tear at the corner of Steve’s eyes even as he feels his own running down his face.

“I traveled with your stinky ass Devil, I haven’t bathed in over a week. No, don’t laugh at me, stop it. I have killed or wounded _hundreds_ of terrifying creatures, even though I swore I’d never go to war again, no matter how pretty the boy. I did that with a sword, a T. Rex, and a handful of knives. I’d do it again. I do it with my bare hands, again and again, if it meant holding you in my arms again.”

He takes Steve firmly by the back of the neck and feels him shiver under his grip. He hopes Darryl had left..

“Steve Rogers, even if we can’t go back, I’ll stay here with you until the gamma changes me into something weird. Or it kills me.”

He shoves his hand in his pocket, pushes aside the protective layers he’d wrapped around the delicate glass, and produces a fistful of slender vials that give off a soft green glow.

“Come home with me, instead. Okay? Come the fuck home, where you belong. Please?”

Steve kisses him then, before he can babble or cry, or maybe faint. All seem like valid options, but Steve’s arms are as strong as they ever were, holding him tight, and his lips are just as gentle. Bucky drowns in it, drowns in the warmth.

They restrain themselves, eventually. By the time Steve lifts his head, Bucky’s legs have gone weak again, and he’s panting for breath, clinging to Steve in a most undignified fashion.

Particularly considering Steve is the one who has been ill.

The next hours pass in a flurry. More of the raptors appear, and after Steve’s nod, there are more shots. If Bucky never again has to hold Steve’s hand while he’s having a painful injection administered, he will die happy.

After the shots, there is a scramble for attire. While Bucky brought the time travel suits, he didn’t think to bring anything else, and the raptors don’t exactly dress themselves. Bucky does have a little sewing kit and an extra shirt. Between his needle and Crystal’s clever claws, Steve is dressed in a loose, flowing skirt, brief shorts, and an equally drapey top.

The dinos don’t keep an armory, per se, but they keep interesting human paraphernalia, including what Bucky is certain is meant to be a decorative axe. Either way, they give it to Steve, and he looks suitably barbaric. Bucky’s breath catches when he sees him with mostly bare thighs, arms and chest, the shining fabric swirling around his legs as he walks, his braid swaying behind him, and a jeweled axe loose in his grip.

It’s barbaric and ridiculous, and more than a little hot. Idly, Bucky thinks the only things destroying the fantasy are the lack of body oil, and his own poor hygiene.

Though, perhaps only on his side. Steve seems fascinated with his tac gear and Bucky realizes that Steve had never seen him as the Winter Soldier, or armed for a mission. His outfit is Winter Soldier light, at best, but regardless, it does seem like the black leather, ridiculous goggles, and scarf are doing something for Steve, given how often Bucky catches him staring and stroking his fingers gently over the worn leather. How he grins, proud and a little turned on when Bucky slides the sword harness back over his back.

“Come in handy?” Steve asked lightly.

Bucky had blushed as Steve trailed a finger up this throat, had nodded and swallowed while Steve grinned, slow and wicked.

Darryl had interrupted them then, to lead them on a long, winding path back to the car and hopefully, Devil, but Bucky had felt Steve’s appraising eyes on him.

Afterward, when they finally reach the car, Devil hesitantly emerges only to immediately roar and scatter again when he smelt the smaller dinosaur. He could only be coaxed back by Steve, and only after Darryl had departed. Bucky wonders a little, why such small creatures terrify him so much, but that’s a can of worms he does not wish to open, as the three sided, stunted conversations between himself, Steve, and Devil are prolonged and not usually particularly enlightening. 

They can’t go through just anywhere. Bucky’s scanner is newly charged and he’s programmed it to hunt for one of the soft spots, a good place to go through, with what he thinks of as nicely harmonizing energies. It’s actually the right balance of radiation and atmosphere that will send them more directly back. Bucky’s gamma countdown is set too. Darryl had rigged up a counteragent for him — not perfect, he can still feel the gamma, pushing at him, but they’ve got a day or so yet.

He loads his guy, and his newly calmed T. rex, into what he supposes is now his convertible. Along with his new plant, his friend from the lobby. Darryl had produced it and then refused to take it back, claiming it was ‘pining’ for Bucky.

When he’d taken it, the tendrils had snaked through his hair, trying to groom him, and because he is _soft_ he had produced more flakes of jerky for it. He’d asked for and received an extensive list of care instructions. Hopefully, he can figure it out.

They drive. Well, Bucky drives, while Steve rests a big, hot hand on his thigh, and Devil snores in the backseat. Driving through the forest and back into winter, snow gathering thickly on the hood and the spoiler, Devil is cranky and cold. The headlights are dim through the falling snow. Bucky wishes he had his phone, because apparently, if it’s cold enough, Devil has a thickly feathered ruff that pops out, framing his face, and it’s _adorable_. 

Finally, when they’re shivering, the flakes melting in their hair and crusting on their eyelashes, the scanner begins to chime and dance on the dash. When Bucky pulls out the particles, they’re shining too. It’s the work of a moment to slide into their suits, Steve attempting to swaddle Devil in an extra one. Bucky hopes it will be enough for Devil, enough for the plant, and hell, even the silly car.

He presses a final kiss to Steve’s lips, cold and soft, hot breath in his mouth. When he sinks his hand into Steve’s hair, he can feel the flakes melting against his hand. He sighs into it, feeling the rightness of it before he pulls back and slips the helmet over Steve’s head.

Locks it into place.

Locks his own.

Distributes the particles out, and then flips the switch.

It’s a rush, as usual. It’s different because he can feel Steve with him. He can feel the rest of them and that, too, is different, weighing him down. The rest is the same. The pressure and the rush and the sickness and then nothing at all.

They make it through, all of them falling onto the platform in an untidy heap in the middle of the night. A soft, soaking rain pours around them. At least the plant and Devil are still in the backseat. Steve and Bucky, not so much. Bucky is on the hood and Steve is half under the steering wheel. But they’re all intact. After that, things are a blur.

Covering the convertible with a tarp, they leave it on the platform. Bruce will be pissed, but Bucky will deal with that later. He decides to quarantine the plant well away from any of their creatures. He’s not willing to see how far “fond of animal protein” extends at the moment. Devil seems well enough, disappearing into the woods after head butting Steve. Then, Bucky’s tugging Steve through the woods, up the stairs, and into the house. No Prius outside, but he yells for Bruce anyway. Pausing, Bucky disarms the security system. 

Then they’re stumbling down the hall together, falling through the dark rooms, neither bothering to turn on lights. Usually Bucky drifts through the house like a ghost. He knows every creaky board and every bit of sticking out furniture, but he’s clumsy now.

Smacking his hip on the table, falling into the doorway, and Steve is no better. The two of them giggle, staggering like they’re half drunk. 

Bucky collides into Steve and brushes a frantic kiss to his damp neck, then down his chest, tries to pull him further down the hall. Laughs outright when Steve picks him up, and Bucky wraps his legs around Steve’s waist, twines his arms around Steve’s neck. Until he can fumble at the door of his room, fingers sliding rain and sweat slick on the knob until it creaks open and then they’re halfway to falling into the room.

Bucky briefly thinks he should maybe pump the brakes a bit, perhaps turn on the bedside lamp and take his time, but Steve’s hands are hot on his hips, sliding up under his shirt and back down his back, and his mouth is even hotter against Bucky’s throat.

They land on the bed together. Steve’s weight is heavy on top of Bucky and he lets out an undignified noise that is definitely not the air squeaking out of his lungs, pressed out of him by the weight of an unshaven supersoldier. Then Bucky’s brain comes back, a little, because they are fucking disgusting, and they’ve got one more thing to do, besides.

He flicks the flight on and watches Steve blink, owlish in the light.

Bucky produces the small case out of his bag. Steve, understanding, begins to shrug out of his raptor crafted finery, leaving the wet fabric on the floor. Bucky flicks open the case and looks over the row of vials, remembering the instructions Darryl had given.

_He has been given the first dose, but the second must be on your planet. Do the first three, right away, and then the rest will be on a schedule, with oxidation times._

Bucky had been given an assurance that the change will begin right away, but no promises on where the change would plateau.

The sting of alcohol as he swabs Steve’s hip. Then he’s depressing the first injection into Steve’s soft skin, steeling himself against the hiss Steve lets out. A moment to breathe, and then a second injection to Steve’s thigh. The last injection goes in his arm. 

Then he’s peeling off his tac gear while Steve tries to help, their fingers sliding over the buckles and foul, creaking leather peeling off his skin. Even worse are the compression tights _Christ._ Bucky forgets to get his boots off first and nearly goes down, but then Steve’s holding him steady, gripping him firmly. Bucky can barely breathe, as Steve kneels before him, bare and beautiful, his long, blond braid tracing the line of his spine as he bows his head over Bucky’s feet.

Carefully, Steve unlaces his boots and grips Bucky’s hand so that he can step out of the first boot, and then the second boot. Then it’s Steve’s turn to peel the tights off the rest of the way and tug the top over his head. He dumps the gear, assorted junk, and the scanner in a heap on his dresser. Then Steve is leading Bucky into the bathroom.

They’re under the hot water together, and there’s a peculiar synchronicity to it, but Bucky doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, doesn’t allow himself to remember the past. He’s touched Steve’s body a hundred times, or maybe more. He’s been privy to every intimate secret, from his illness and his recovery to their blooming relationship. He relearns them all now, with eager hands, a gentle mouth and hungry eyes 

The feel of Steve’s skin is the contrast of water damp skin and textured scars, and the sound of his breath is caught on an inhale. Steve’s hands are gentle and firm by turns as he washes the grime from Bucky’s body, turning him under the water and scrubbing his scalp and his beard. Dizzy, Bucky relearns the tiny freckles he’s tried to count and failed, and the feeling of Steve’s hair going silky soft.

Steve relearns him in turn. His fingers slide over Bucky’s hips and his thighs, scrubbing every inch from his toes to the back of his neck, pressing gentle kisses to his ears and his throat. Steve’s hands stroke over his shoulder, carefully cleaning the place where his arm joins his body, sluicing water through the grooves of the metal one.

Later, Steve is on his knees again, nuzzling his face into the crease of Bucky’s hip, inhaling as he pushes his nose into Bucky’s pubic hair and Bucky can’t help but smile because Steve’s scent thing is a part that he likes, even if it’s a bit odd. Bucky’s half hard against his thigh, and Steve pays attention to that too. Earlier, he’d gently washed Bucky, and now Steve takes him in his mouth, gently exploring with tongue and lips, a re-acquaintance that he leaves off when Bucky tugs at him, pulling him up and bringing their mouths together again.

This time, when they fall into bed with clean, damp skin and whispered laughter, they relearn each other, desire rising slowly and inevitably as fatigue and a desire for care give way to giddy relief. Yielding, slowly to more. Rolling over each other, their limbs tangle together with soft sighs and whispered gasps until finally Bucky glances at the clock and rolls Steve under him. Bucky straddles him, his thighs cupping Steve’s waist.

The rain pounding overhead, a relentless shiver against the roof. Without taking his eyes from Steve, Bucky reaches for the nightstand, grabbing a knife, small, wickedly sharp. Gauze. A bandage, just in case.

Steve lifts his arm, trusting and Bucky takes his hand, and squeezes it, pressing a kiss to the palm. Bucky pauses for a minute, savoring the feel of Steve’s calloused palm beneath his lips and the trust with which it had been offered. An inhale, an exhale, and then Bucky slings Steve’s forearm across his thighs, supporting the limb so it doesn’t slide off his lap.

They really should have waited for Bruce to come home and supervise but Bucky doesn't want to wait. He wants to see this through and as Steve follows his glance at the clock and then the knife, Bucky knows they’re in accord.

With a last glance at the time, Bucky looks back at Steve, meeting his eyes even as he lifts the knife and slashes it across the back of Steve’s forearm. Deep, sure, unrelenting, through skin and fat, into muscle. Blood, welling up, bright, and Bucky blots it away, presses the gauze to the wound.

They wait. Steve’s eyes are fixed on his arm. Bucky’s hand is gently trapping it across Bucky’s thighs. His own eyes are fixed on Steve. The clock ticks quietly and Bucky wonders how he ever tolerated that sound in his own goddamn bedroom.

Bucky keeps holding Steve’s hand and the air hangs between them, heavy and thick. Bucky suddenly can’t stand the stress in Steve’s face, or the grooves between his eyebrows and the pinched, tight look of his mouth. After all, Steve had said that he didn’t care about the healing anymore. But Bucky wants him to be healthy, at least. Now each second feels like an eternity while they wait, and he has the inescapable desire to distract Steve.

“Steve, sweetheart, you didn’t lie to me, exactly. But you greatly exaggerated.”

Steve’s eyebrows fly up at the accusation. His eyes soften at the endearment.

“Regarding?”

Fuck, Bucky loves him.

Steve is naked and being straddled by another naked guy who just cut him with a knife, right after they’d come back in time with a T. rex, a sentient plant, and a hell-car. Between the delicately arched eyebrow and the prim tone, Steve sounds ready to go to a formal event wearing a suit and be served something fancy on bits of toast.

“You told me Battleworld was awful. That it was ‘a cesspit of violence and despair.’ A place without hope, where good goes to die, and the wicked thrive.”

“It _is._ ”

“I liked it. It was fun. Like vacation!”

He makes his tone falsely bright and wiggles a little on Steve, trying to get comfortable. Oh, even stressed out, Steve is firming up under him. How _interesting._ More of Bucky’s fatigue trickles away

Steve shifts under him, and his brows are furrowed and serious.

Bucky wants to kiss him.

“Bucky, you make light of this, but Battleword is _dangerous_. The gamma could have killed you, a hundred times over.”

Steve chokes up, and the rest of his words are thick and forced. “You stayed too long! Bucky, that was incredibly foolish! You might have died. You might have been unable to leave. You were so, so lucky. I’m going to... You need.”

Steve struggles under him, attempting some kind of maneuver to pull Bucky down, but Bucky pins him with a restraining grip on his arm.

“Steve.” Bucky shrugs. “If I couldn’t leave with you, I wasn’t going to leave. Even if I turned into a giant, psychic goose, I would have stayed with you.”

Steve’s eyes are bright with unshed tears.

Bucky winks. “Can’t get rid of me so easily.”

Steve pushes up at him again and Bucky grips him with his thighs, shifting against him.

“Uh-uh, just wait. We got some time, still.” Bucky goes on, tone musing. “Steve, it wasn’t so bad, not comfortable, exactly, but not awful. I even got some souvenirs out of it.”

Bucky wiggles again, and Steve gasps.

“I got a weird plant and a new car. I’m not really sure if Earth gas is gonna work on it, but you know, we can set up a drive in. Did you have those? No? Well, we’ll figure it out. We’ll project some scary movie and snuggle up.”

Steve surges up again. “I'll show you scary.”

Bucky tightens his thighs, gripping hard. Oh, it feels good, Steve’s strong muscles moving against the soft skin of his inner thighs. Steve’s fully hard now, dick pressing up against Bucky’s ass, and _oh_ that’s good too, the promise of it making Bucky harden as thick desire pools in his belly.

They’re still waiting and he doesn’t want to get distracted.

“Hush up, Steve, I’m talking. I spent a whole week without you. You usually say enough for both of us. Anyway, you’ll love the drive in. We’ll make out and eat snacks. Throw popcorn at Devil.”

He grinds, slowly against Steve, enjoying the way Steve’s eyes dilate and the way the muscles of his trunk strain against Bucky. Bucky keeps talking, lazily, mostly silly things designed to tease Steve and rile him up. How Bucky had struggled to get back into his armor, dealing with all the straps and buckles. How he’d gotten sunburned the first day, and how Devil apparently finds driving very soothing.

But he also sprinkles in serious pieces, leaning forward to make sure Steve can’t avoid his gaze.

“Steve. I went in expecting something else. A lot of it was just as you said, and it’s…”

He shakes his head, not able to find the words for it. “You're beautiful. And ridiculous.”

Steve’s eyes narrow and Bucky rushes on, setting his weight just in case Steve tries to flip him again. “I saw some terrible shit there and a lot of it, yeah, that was you. The platform sent me through at that tower, the castle.”

Bucky doesn’t need to name it further, but he can tell by the way Steve tenses that he knows exactly what Bucky means.

“To find you, the scanner sent me all over. I saw. Well, you left your mark.”

Steve closes his eyes. Bucky shakes him, rocking sideways until they fly open again.

“Steve, you left your mark, and some of it was terrible. But in the ashes were good things. Christ, Steve, the arena is a market now and people live all around it. Those raptors that helped us, they’re not hunted for their feathers or to be pets. Other people have been changed. Sam and Nat are helping others. They all knew you. Not personally, but they’d heard of you, and now they’re taking that space to do more.”

Steve closes his eyes. “It was selfish. It was because of my own loss, not any great overarching call to justice.”

“Was it? Sure. But Steve, you could have stopped with the Red King. With Doc Green. You could have burned it all down and walked away. But you didn’t. You did more. You kept it from happening to more people.”

It's an awkward angle, but he leans forward anyways, cupping Steve’s cheek and making Steve look at him. “You did good. You’re just a man. A man who has done some good and who has done some bad, and I know you said you’re done avenging and that you’ll retire, but I want you to know that you don’t need redemption.”

Steve’s eyes are shiny, and Bucky eases off. “You might not need redemption, but Steve, you definitely do some bad shit. Dramatically receiving a mortal wound and going back through time, only to snooze peacefully in the ice? Almost as bad as when you leave crusty dishes in the sink. Or do weird, experimental shit with Bruce. Remember when you hiccupped for 3 days? Or your dick turned–” 

“Bucky!”

Steve’s face is going red, because yeah, his dick had done some strange things under the influence, but in the end, they had both enjoyed it, perhaps more than they should have.

“I was banking on a dramatic rescue, sweetheart. I was ready. I had the big, fuck-off sword and I put on my leather. I even wore the goddamn goggles and the mask. I found your hellbeast for backup.”

He rocks against Steve little harder, and they both gasp. “Didn’t even get to go in, sword swinging, and dramatically carry you out in my arms.”

“You would never!”

“Oh I wanted to, trust me.” He glances at the clock, and the time is almost up, based on what Darryl had said.

“No dramatic kiss in appreciation for my heroics. I spent weeks on a road trip with Devil, watching him eat a lot of weird, gross shit. I watched you nap. I fixed your hair.”

“I appreciate you! Ngh! Fuck, Bucky.”

Bucky’s not fully in control of himself now. He’s still got Steve’s arm trapped, but they’re both panting, and Steve’s lined up just right against his ass when he rolls his hips. Bucky is getting just the smallest amount of friction grinding up into Steve’s forearm that is resting across his legs. He’s pushing back against Steve’s cock and he can feel it getting slick with pre-come, jumping and eager for him.

“Do you appreciate me? I’m not sure about that.” He lifts up just a little and feels Steve’s hips jut forward under him, seeking and eager.

Bucky’s eyes flick back to the clock and then back to Steve, who is panting, flushed, and whose eyes are dilated and wide. Steve’s chest rising and falling, his nipples pink and perky, his whole body tense and straining towards Bucky’s cock as it’s trapped up against Steve's forearm, pressing against his stomach.

Bucky smiles. “Sweetheart.”

“Fuck, Bucky!” 

“Time’s up.”

Bucky, with a confidence he doesn’t fully feel, pulls the gauze away. They both stare at a red, angry scar, bisecting Steve’s forearm.

Steve’s eyes flutter closed, relief suffusing his whole body. For a barely a second he rests, and then he’s surging under Bucky, hips bucking. Bucky laughs and grabs Steve’s hand up, kissing his fingers tips, his palm, and the scar.

“Come on, Steve. Show me how much you appreciate me.” 

He’s deliberately lewd, with an over the top wink, but Steve laughs right back, his teeth flashing and the soft light making his hair look like gold.

The flip of a cap and Steve’s making a real mess of the lube, getting it everywhere. He’s a fucking disaster. It’s so unfortunate that he makes Bucky’s stomach fizz and his heart jump like this.

“Bucky, I am going to appreciate the ever loving fuck out of you.”

Steve lubes up one hand and pulls Bucky forward onto his chest with the other. “I am going to appreciate you with my fingers.”

Bucky cries out as Steve drifts feather light, slick fingers over his hole. Steve strokes gently, sliding down to press behind Bucky’s balls and then back up again, teasing and touching, holding Bucky firm when he tries to push back to fill himself on Steve’s fingers. Steve’s teeth sink into his throat and then there is an almost apologetic lick at the love bite. Whispered words against his heart, and Steve’s hot breath makes Bucky shiver, the delicate lick to his ear pulling a little moan from him.

“‘Appreciate you with my tongue, my mouth.”

A repeat with more sucking bites and gentle licks under Bucky’s jaw and in the soft spot behind just thunder his ear. A swift nip to his lip, followed by a soul stealing kiss.

“I’m going to appreciate you with my cock, Bucky Barnes. I’m going to appreciate you until you’re begging for me, until you can’t breathe, until you can’t see straight, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

Bucky writhes, trapped between Steve’s mouth, obscenities falling into his ear, and Steve’s fingers, which have made their clever way into his body. First one strokes and pets, and then a second, and it feels good, so fucking good. Bucky clenches around them when Steve goes to pull out, earning another bite to his throat, right over the big tendon and another to his collarbone.

“Hush, Buck. Let me. Let me.”

Steve’s fingers are moving in earnest now, sliding in and out of him, and he’s loose, he’s ready, but it feels good, so fucking good that he just moans into Steve’s neck and grinds against him, desperate for more. More friction, more pressure in his ass.

“Fuck, Bucky, oh sweetness, oh, you feel good.”

Bucky loses himself for a bit in the feel of Steve’s mouth and his fingers, in the words. His own hands roam, stroking over Steve’s sides and tangling in his hair . He pulls until Steve hisses in mingled pleasure-pain, his hips moving restlessly, eagerly, seeking more pressure against Steve, only to push back on his fingers. He bites at Steve’s clavicle, leaving sloppy, open mouthed kisses across his chest.

Then Steve’s pushing up under him again, and this time Bucky goes, letting himself be arranged on his back. He stretches, enjoying the feeling of Steve’s gaze hot over him. He knows the soft light is caressing him and making his hair gleam.

He’s covered in love bites and bruises. Some are from Steve’s mouth, and others are from his adventure, but he’s unashamed, lazily spreading his legs and feeling Steve’s gaze trail over the marks and over Bucky’s cock. It’s hard and red, straining upward, and between his thighs is a wet shine.

Steve’s on him a second later and Bucky opens himself to him. His body welcoming, eagerly lifting a leg and hooking it over Steve’s shoulder, opening himself even more.

Steve presses a kiss to his calf, and then he’s pressing into Bucky, holding his cock firm against his hole, hips rolling forward. Bucky lets his head fall back, panting and helpless and it’s good. So fucking good. Steve presses into him, filling him perfectly, and once he’s in all the way, they both just breathe, their eyes locked. Bucky feels fucking perfect.

Opened and treasured, filled and connected.

He pants, “That all? Thought you were gonna appreciate me.”

Steve growls and then he laughs, kissing Bucky’s calf again. He strokes a big hand up and down Bucky’s thigh, trapped on his chest, and squeezes his knee.

“Just giving you a little break.”

“Don’t you fucking...Oh, Steve. _Shit_ , yes.”

Bucky had meant to register his dissatisfaction. He doesn’t need a break. He needs to be fucked. He needs Steve to fuck him right now, not just fucking hang out with his dick in Bucky’s ass.

But Steve’s a step ahead of him, or more like three. He pulls out and pushes back in, a long, slow delicious thrust that seems to last forever, and it lights Bucky up, short circuiting his brain and curling his toes. Steve laughs, dark and satisfied, and it’s like a warm blanket wrapping around Bucky.

Then he does fuck Bucky. Hard and fast, hips slapping against Bucky’s in an unrelenting pace, while Bucky writhes underneath him. Bucky’s hands are moving desperately, up and down Steve’s sides, sliding down to feel where he’s stretched wide around Steve’s cock. The cool metal of his fingers on Steve's cock, trailing over the heated, stretched place where they’re joined makes Steve cry out and fuck him harder, fuck him faster until finally it's all Bucky can do to pull Steve close, one hand flexing helplessly at Steve's hip while the other fists in the sheets. 

Christ, Steve isn't done with him yet, pushing Bucky’s leg to his chest.

Steve pushes even deeper into him, if that was even possible, and Bucky sobs under him, lets out helpless little gasps at the pressure over his prostate and the full weight of Steve above him.

Then, Steve, fucking concern all over his face, pauses.

"You...are you okay, Buck?” he asks with an uncertain smile.

Bucky stares up at him, stunned, every nerve in his body singing and his brain completely offline.

“Um. Uh.”

Steve shuffles on his knees, slipping on the sheets. Bucky groans as Steve presses deeper, inadvertently pushing Bucky’s thigh closer. Bucky’s words, when they are found, come from very, very far away.

“Steve. I love you. So fuckin’…Ahhh! Much. Oh, shit, do not stop. For the love of all that is holy, do not fucking stop.”

And the smile on Steve’s face turns wicked. “Love you too, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes practically roll up into his head when Steve thrusts again. “Fuck, you feel good, so perfect.”

Steve doesn’t stop, leaning forward over Bucky with his hips moving endlessly, unrelenting. Bucky feels broken open and made whole, the weight of Steve's body anchoring him and unmaking him. All he can do is hold on while tears spring from his eyes and sounds are dragged from his throat. Steve swallows down his moans and gives them back, lips meeting and sliding apart and coming together again.

Bucky’s close, so close, and Steve's hips are jerking. Pleasure is coiling in his spine and every drag, every slide of Steve’s dick is sending him closer. Then he reaches for his dick, hand weirdly uncoordinated, fumbling over his own hip.

“Steve. Mgh. M’so close.”

Steve groans, and he’s still, somehow, a step ahead of Bucky because he’s coordinated enough to wrap his other hand around Bucky’s dick in a slick, firm grip, to jerk him while his own hips stutter, rhythm interrupted. Bucky comes, suddenly, unexpectedly, his whole body going tense and vision whiting out, his ass clenching around Steve. Steve follows him with a single, soft cry, collapsing over him. 

They lie limply together, panting. 

Buck feels a little like he’s died, and come back to life, but Steve seems well enough, nuzzling into his hair and dropping soft kisses on his cheek. When he slides out of Bucky, Bucky’s whole body spasms with the echo of pleasure. It’s too much, his hip cramping unexpectedly, and he kicks Steve in the head. 

He takes it like a champ, catching and kissing Bucky’s foot with a loud smack and then kneading Bucky’s thigh until the muscle releases. He’s a little unnecessary about it, fingers sinking deep into Bucky’s ass and fingers tickling at his sides until Bucky laughs and smacks at him. Then they tussle their way through clean up and back into bed. 

As Bucky curls into Steve’s body, he feels the weight of Angel settling on his feet, hears the rumble-crash of Devil moving through the house. Steve’s breathing is already soft and even, a gentle counterpoint to Angel’s wheezy purr, and as sleep falls over Bucky, he thinks that finally, they will have some time. Or at least until morning.

Bucky dreams that night. Not his own memories, nor the echoed whispers of the other Bucky. He knows now, whose dreams he’s had. 

_He touches Bucky’s face, his own face. Fingertips linger over a strong jaw and press into the dimpled chin, feeling the rough stubble under his finger tips. They trail through dark, straight hair, over brows that echo the dark. Pale gray eyes blink, and he touches the arm too. It’s like his old arm, a pale heavy metal with a scarlet star. Fingers rest on Bucky’s lips, his lips, feeling them move, soundless, voiceless._

_Touching his, no this Bucky’s…he doesn't know anymore where he ends and this Bucky begins, but feeling is fading and he’s becoming just Bucky, just himself again. He can feels his own lips move and hear his own voice echoing absurdly, obscenely loud._

_"Are you lost still? Don’t go, if you…”_

_He imagines his counterpart without his home in Bucky’s brain, drifting, endlessly in space, in time, lost and without anchor._

_A brief touch to his hair, gentle, a faint whisper against his ear, and a sense of goodbye. Of peace._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -Steve allows Bucky to cut his arm to see if his healing factor is working. This takes place adjacent to sexual activities, but is not explicitly sexual in nature - more like a task they're trying to get done, while also fooling around.


	17. interlude 4 - where we stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's soul shifts.
> 
> Steve and Natasha find Battleworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Earth 2030_

They land, as usual, in a confused rush, but Steve knows, immediately, where they are. 

Earth. 

_Home._

Or what used to be home. 

Steve had come here, finally, hadn’t been able to resist any longer. He'd held out longer than he’d expected. The soul stone had looked earlier. It had been curious, and no force could keep it from indulging its curiosity. Steve hadn’t aske, hadn’t wanted to know what the stone had seen. 

In the end, now that he’s ready, it’d been easy enough to do. He’d looked through his own heart and found the string, the thread, the soul. The one that says relentless determination and set jaw, commitment. Kisses, some soft and some hard, and a strong hand in his own. Love, soft brown hair, and unwavering support.

He finds the thread that says, “Bucky Barnes,” and he follows it back through time and space, weaving through...

Oh hell, where has Bucky even been? What has he been up to? 

Oh, shit. 

Oh, _Bucky._

____

__

Bucky had been searching for him, following a trail that had winked out when Steve had disappeared. He keeps following Bucky through the lifetimes he'd traveled through, the strange worlds, and the different times. He watches as Bucky falls apart and slowly, slowly comes back. Tears fill his eyes as Bucky does what he has always done, continues. He watches Bucky in his garden, driving his old pickup truck, trying to cook. He watches Bucky finally sleep through the night, stop throwing himself into time, _against_ time.

The tears spill over when he sees Bucky smiling again with bright teeth framed in a neat, brown beard. Smiling at someone, another tall, blond man, him and _not him._ He watches strong arms wrapping around Bucky’s waist, and Bucky laughing, angling his face for a kiss, one he receives immediately. 

Steve waits. Waits for jealousy, for rage. He’d always been horribly jealous of Bucky’s girlfriends, even when they’d been just that, friends. But, there is none of that. 

There is regret, gentle and lingering, that he hadn’t just...stayed. 

Had he stayed, he might have been the man Bucky is currently laughing with.

Affection and love thrum inside Steve, undiminished, but tempered, changed. He sees how happy Bucky is, how healthy. He remembers with how Bucky had looked before. His eyes haunted and his cheeks hollow. 

Temptation. An emotion that makes Steve’s cheeks heat with shame, because he’s tempted, sorely tempted. Being with Natasha and with the stone has been good. They've seen worlds and places he’d never dreamed of and could never have imagined in a thousand years. 

They’ve done good things together. Steve can feel the tangled threads now, a soul out of place, and can see what needs to be done to twitch it back into place and correct a wrong. Neither he nor Nat are quite human anymore. The patterns of the multiverse shimmer in their minds, the cold lights of the galaxy swirl in their veins, and they live outside of time, bathed in the affection of the soul stone. 

They’re only two people and a rock, and their work is a drop in the bucket. But it’s good work, satisfying, and feeds his soul, makes it bright and happy.

The only shadow...he can imagine doing the same, but with Bucky by his side, having his six. Bucky, curling against him at night. Once, he would have asked. He wouldn't have hesitated. He’d never hesitated, he’d always asked and Bucky had always answered. He’s not sure now what Bucky’s response would be. 

Steve watches longer and sees Bucky break away from this strange Steve, a huge man with a scarred face. Bucky seems to be scolding some birds. Emus, he thinks. He’s lecturing them at length, while the ridiculous birds run around him and shake off water on him. 

Once, Steve would have asked. He might have asked eagerly, he might have asked with regret, but he’d have asked. He doesn’t know what Bucky would say now. But he knows that he doesn’t want to make Bucky choose. He can see Bucky’s soul, bright and shining, and doesn't want to see it darken.

He doesn’t want to press on that small, dark spot and watch it spread. 

Steve takes a deep breath. Knows he won’t try to pull that thread, try to tie it around his own. He lets the tears spill over, though he can’t rightly say if they are happy, or sad. 

He regrets. Not leaving Bucky, exactly, can't fully regret the choices he made. But, he regrets not saying more at the time. How he’d loved Bucky. He’d always thought they’d have more time.

He watches all afternoon, until Bucky disappears, into a small, neat house, followed by, _oh hell_ , his husband with a shining band gleaming on his finger. How had he not noticed before? 

He feels something move in his chest, sitting rough and hard.

_“Good, very good,_ ” the soul stone praises him, warmly, sliding out of his pocket and hovering. Steve can feel his own soul shift even further, straining for... 

There’s a brief sensation of roaring, raging loss, more pain, before it dampens quickly. Steve gasps as his soul _clicks_ , sliding back into place, a _new_ , open spot in his chest that hadn't been there before.

“ _Come on,_ ” says the stone. “ _We have more to do, and for this one, you weren’t ready. But now, you’ve grown. You've become more._ ”

Steve whispers, “ _The pieces are in place._ ”

_“Yes._ "

It’s true. He can feel the shape of it, the pattern opening up around him, pulling him. Steve glances back once more, to a small house, with golden light shining from the window, and lets the thread go. 

_Battleworld 2015_

When they blink in, it’s with a gasp and a rush. It had been a long, long journey, longer than usual. Though, there is nothing particularly efficient about how they do things. The soul stone, for all its power, is limited. So are Steve and Natasha. They chase feelings, sensations, a cord pulling them one way and another. They arrive too late and have to try again, and arrive too early and have to wait. Sometimes it’s not always clear just what they need to do.

This time though, it had been truly nightmarish. It’d been pulling Steve, riding him worse than ever, but also impossibly, devilishly difficult to locate. They’d gone to half a dozen worlds, only for it to die out and trail off. Then they’d had to wait for it to grab at him again. The soul stone had been no help at all, offering the rock equivalent of a shrug, but insisting they had to keep going, keep looking. 

He and Natasha had shrugged and kept looking. 

There'd been other missions in between, threads they’d stumbled over in the course of their journey, and made time for. But they’d kept looking for this one, particular soul, one that is just as out of place as they are. Steve can feel the thread, can feel how it thrums and resonates, pulling at them. Sometimes it faded, nearly nonexistent, and other times it’d been so strong it woke him at night. They stand outside of time, but Natasha’s hair grows long, and so does Steve’s, beard coming in full and dark.

Now Steve can feel the thread, can feel the hook in his chest pulling him so fast and so hard that he’s nearly yanked off his feet. 

Reality rips open, leaving them standing in the snow. Steve shivers as he pulls his collar up. His nose is cold, going numb, and as he exchanges a glance with Natasha, he can see the tip of her nose is pink. It makes him grin, and she frowns. 

They’re on an overlook, a snow draped beach below. Gray water beats at the shore and the snowfall is so thick Steve has to squint through it. 

Natasha sneezes. “Fuck, it’s cold, let’s wrap this one up quick.” 

“It’ll take as long as it takes.” Steve’s cold too but his response is automatic as he stomps his feet. 

“Ah, there.” 

Nat jerks her head, and Steve tracks her gaze. A small cluster of figures is moving closer, slowly coming into focus. A group of large, muscled men—hulked, Steve realizes, similar to Bruce. They push a smaller figure between them to the ground, forcing it to kneel in the snow. Blades come out, arguments begin. 

Steve squints, heart beating faster as the details resolve themselves. Long, tangled brown hair is whipping around a bowed head, effectively concealing his face, but Steve can see the awkward positioning of a tied down arm, gleaming metal wrapping around a shoulder, long wires trailing. _He knows._

Steve does want to know why he's wearing a goddamn leather kilt and no shirt in this weather. He wants to know everything about this man, this familiar stranger. 

But, they have to save him first. Steve shrugs off his jacket, lets it fall in the snow, and stretches.

Sacrificing the serum hadn’t been a one and done. The soul stone had burned it out of him, and then had given a little back, shared enough of itself to keep the space travel from tearing him apart. On this planet, he can feel the gamma swirling through him, teasing at the remnants of the serum, the spots where the soul stone has twisted into him. It's...uncomfortable but bearable. 

Steve pulls the shield out and hoists it while Natasha sheds her coat beside him and twirls her glaive.

She checks her watch. “Time.” 

“Looks like.” 

His voice is measured, but his nerves are dancing with excitement and the pressure in his chest is nearly unbearable, nearly pushing him forward. Natasha's gone, running down the hill. Steve runs after. He’s never as quick as Nat even on stable terrain, and this is anything but. Even so, they take the guards almost completely by surprise, dispatching them with ruthless efficiency, leaving blood in the snow. 

The man had fallen on his side. Once it goes quiet, he struggles back to his knees as Steve stumbles forward to help him. Steve reaches for him just as he slowly looks up, hair sliding away. Familiar grey eyes in an unfamiliar face transfix Steve, as does the feel of a calloused hand in his own. The pressure in his chest dissipates, leaving him feeling light and warm. 

_Like he’s come back home._

Steve smiles. “Hey, Buck.”  



	18. interlude 5 - in the time slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected rescue, a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-Specific Tag/Warnings:**  
>  (see endnotes for more detailed information)  
> violence, brief descriptions of captivity, torture.  
> 
> 
> Please see the more detailed notes re: info on the Planet Hulk 'verse and the relationship/ending/character death tags if desired in the [chapter 1 author notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899455/chapters/68318560).

_Battleworld 2015 - Just outside the Mud Kingdom_

Bucky struggles to stay on his feet. Each step takes painful effort, a concerted struggle to defy gravity. 

_Tired, he’s so tired._

The mission had been doomed from the outset. Bucky had known it was a slim chance of success, though he’d been hopeful. He’d prepared as much as he could, as much as he could and still keep it from Steve. He’d briefly considered taking Devil along for back up, but he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of leaving Steve without Devil’s protection. 

Bucky's lips curl in a smile, feeling his dry, cracked lips split. His captors rarely give him water, just enough to wet his mouth, and food even less than that. Bucky guesses that they don’t see much of a point in feeding a dead man. 

He’s hungry, and he’s tired, and his whole body feels like a bruise. He's scared of what is to come, but it’s still good, reassuring to think of Steve, of Devil. 

He thinks of happier days, of warm sunshine and cool nights spent wrapped in each other, of fighting side by side. 

The blood trickles down his chin. His tongue flicks out, the taste of iron burns in the back of his throat. 

They trudge further and further, the snow whirling around them. Bucky has to work harder as the ground slick under his feet and intermittently gives way. He gets tangled in his chains more than once, and his captors impatiently yank him back up. 

He muses as he goes. It’d taken weeks to get to the Mud Kingdom, led by Doc Green, who gave him a creeping, crawling feeling down the back of his neck. Bucky had slept with one eye open and his hand clenched on a knife. 

He’d known what had happened when Doc’s intelligence had led him neatly into a trap. Bucky turned to run and faced Steve.

A young Steve with close cropped hair and a cruel smile. The surprise had been Bucky’s undoing. He’d hesitated too long and had been overcome and captured. 

Steve- _not Steve_ had laughed as the Red King had torn the arm from his body, and then he’d watched with hot, eager eyes as Bucky was tortured, at first for the knowledge in his brain, and then for entertainment. _Not-Steve_ had raved when he’d been left alone with Bucky in his cell, spitting out a confused mess of poisonous vitriol, accusing Bucky of making him weak and destroying his dignity. And worse. 

Bucky hadn’t known how to respond. He had turned his face away and felt the hot tears run down his cheeks. It’d hurt to think that in his last moments with the likeness of Steve, he’d been mocked for his love, his pain savored by the cruel reflection of his husband. 

In a small, remote part of himself, a part he’d hated a little, he had ached for not-Steve and for the pain he’d carried. The part of Bucky Barnes who loves Steve Rogers, unconditionally, had ached to draw this angry, hurting young man into his arms and comfort him, drawing the poison from his soul. But he had pushed that part down and thought instead of his own Steve, who was older and scarred, but still kind and hopeful in the face of their joint disappointments. 

He had kept his face firmly turned away while not-Steve had laughed at his tears.

Now, Bucky winces as he’s pushed to his knees and he has to scramble to keep his balance. He feels his hair pulled taut by one of his guards. His remaining arm cramps, pulled tightly and bound behind him. He should fight, try to escape again, but he’s so tired, his movements coming ever slower. He thinks that if they don’t hurry up and kill him, the cold and the abuse might very well do it for them. 

Above his head, he can hear them arguing. He drifts. The snow is pretty, despite the cold stinging across his face and his exposed skin. The strange, snowy beach is immediately outside the Red King’s castle in one of those rapid landscape shifts at which he always marvels. The sound of the ocean fills his ears and the gray, icy water pushes at the shore through the snow. 

Bucky lets his gaze go soft and hazy, snow dancing across his vision while he pretends he’s anywhere but here. He pretends he’s somewhere warm with sunlight, somewhere other than this hellhole. 

He’s still drifting, dreaming and unbothered. The voices above his head are remote and the pain is far away. His limbs are going warm and the snow is out of sight. He can barely feel it as his vision goes dark, a little more shadow with every blink. 

Voices over his head, the sound of a blade being sharpened.

His vision goes black and his head lolls forward. His hair is cold and wet around him. Very distantly, he’s glad that his face is hidden so no one will see him in his last minutes.

He watches, bemused, as images dance across his eyes, unsure if his eyes are closed or open. 

_Light, glowing bright and orange._

_Silence._

_Two figures, small and dark against the bright, hot light_

_Screaming, so much screaming amid the gleam of metal_

_Red painting the snow._

Slowly, slowly, Bucky comes back to himself. He’d fallen sideways into the snow, and now he struggles upright. Blood and the remains of his captors scattered around him. The light is gone, the snow is clearing.

In front of him is a woman. Compact and dressed in faded, worn leather, obviously patched and mended. Her hair spills over her shoulder in one long red braid that tipped in blond and in blood. Weary eyes and competent hands on a long, razor sharp glaive. 

Beside her...Bucky feels his heart stutter and stop. A man, no taller than the woman. Lean and wiry with dark blond hair falling messily across his forehead, an unruly dark beard. Blood smears one cheek. His clothes are just as worn, just as neatly mended. Bucky’s breath catches as the man slides a shield into a harness on his back. 

The man brushes back his hair, winces at the blood on his hand, and _oh_

His eyes glow orange and his skin is translucent. Bucky can see the universe contained in his skin, and see the pattern of his bones and the pull of his heart. Then it all fades, and Bucky is left staring into blue, blue eyes. Familiar and not. Eyes with no cruelty, but filled only with relief and warm affection. 

"Hey, Buck.” 

The voice is deep, soothing in its familiarity. An unscarred face, though no less weary. Large crooked nose, contrasted with delicate, high cheekbones. A sharp jaw, barely concealed by the beard, and a sharper grin, hungry and satisfied.

Bucky, despite everything he’s been through, can feel something inside him wake up, like a sharp hook right under his breastbone. 

The man’s large hand outstretched, with his slender, strong forearm. 

“Buck, you don’t know me, but trust me when I say we've been looking for you. For a long, long time.”

Bucky can feel his lips curl in an answering grin and he somehow stumbles to his feet, putting his hand out and feeling the strong, warm, calloused grip. 

He watches the sharp grin fade. 

“Bucky, I’m sorry, but your life here? It’s over. It wasn’t supposed to end.” 

Bucky pulls his hand free, reaching for his own intact neck with an echo of a memory, one where the blade he’d heard above his head had descended. 

_Cold, he’s cold, so cold, can’t stop shivering, and then sharp pain, and oh….that’s..._

_His own blood_

Bucky shakes off the whispers of cold, of blood and pain. The man is still talking to him, explaining.

“Your life here can’t be reclaimed, or repaired. Bucky, I wish it didn’t have to be like that. But, you can come with us, come with me.”

Bucky can see orange roll over the man’s eyes as his voice goes hollow and distant. 

“ _There are too many pieces and the balance owed would be too great._ ”

The orange dims, resolving back into blue.

Bucky’s voice is hoarse from disuse. 

“Steve? What about Steve? Devil?” 

Steve, because it _is_ Steve, though not the one he’d shared his life, a lifetime ago. This Steve’s response is gentle. 

“Your line. Your life. It ended here. He is no longer in this place, though he remained longer than he probably should have. He avenged you, thoroughly.” 

_Oh, Steve._

Bucky can see it, his warbound haunting this place and raising hell, cajoling Devil into ill-advised actions. It makes his heart ache, and it makes him consider something else. 

“Am I a ghost then?” 

“Not a ghost. Just outside of time. You’ll be changed, if you come with us, to be both more and less. You can’t go back, regardless of what you choose now. But you can see worlds, fix them, experience things you’ve never dreamed of.” 

And Bucky’s head is spinning, but he can taste the truth of it, feel the eagerness of this man, Steve, writhing beneath the calm surface. 

“Steve’s okay? He’s safe? Happy?”

“Not for a long time, but he is now” 

Bucky grins, suddenly. His smile is a fragile thing, but it’s all he can do in the moment. He feels his lip split a little further. 

“Yeah, I’ll come. I’ve always wanted to see space.” 

_He knows that later he’s going to think about this more, remember what he’s left behind to mourn it all properly, but in the moment, he has a chance to live. He can feel that his chance is precarious, sliding away as they speak._

His grip on Steve’s warm hand is hard and Steve’s smile is like sunshine. 

“Oh, Bucky. I’m so glad. We’ve been looking for you.”

A dry voice cuts him off. 

“Steve, you got your guy. Now we have to go. The window is closing.”

She’s glancing down at a watch that is a dizzying swirl of stars. Bucky’s eyes cross when he looks at it too closely. 

She nods at him, quick and sharp, but her faded blue eyes are warm even as they flick back to the watch. Steve glances at the watch himself, eyebrows flying up. 

“Oh! Shit, yeah. Buck, you ready?”

Bucky nods as he’s pulled close. Orange light wraps around them, moving through him gently. Space opens up around them and Bucky whispers.

_Goodbye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  -description of Bucky's captivity by the Red King, with brief mentions of withheld food and water  
> -brief mention of Bucky's arm being removed, mention of torture with no description of physical torture (though Doc Green taunts Bucky and causes emotioanl distress to him)  
> -standard violence warning, nothing particularly graphic


	19. epilogue - drinking those moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A final worry, resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT IT'S THE END
> 
> Appearing in this chapter is one final, beautifully romantic piece of art from [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041744) <3
> 
> This story is the most complicated thing I have ever written, and is pretty damn close to my heart. We all experience loss, and love differently, and I hope this speaks to that, at least a little. And creatures, since I clearly love those too.
> 
> It’s been an absolute delight to collaborate with [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041744) and [whatthefoucault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault). Sharing ideas, staying up way too late writing and arting, chatting about comics and the MCU - it’s been awesome, and I’m grateful for their collective creative talents, energy, and compassion. 
> 
> I am also so! grateful for E_Greer, BeaArthurPendragon, and AidaRonan who all swooped in to beta at the last minute, and to Zoe_Alden for their time and enthusiasm. 
> 
> The NASBB discord has been a bright spot and so appreciated over the past months, particularly the late night/early morning sprinting squad <3\. Thank you also to the mods for fostering such a sense of community.
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/powercrow1) and am always down for questions, comments, and assorted stucky nonsense.

_Earth 2028 - Steve and Bucky's home_

There is time, in the end. 

They move after Steve comes back for the second time, buying a plot of land directly adjacent to the Cabin. Bucky’s still technically working for the Avengers, but he trained his replacements, no longer living on site. Not immediately, of course. They’d stayed in the Cabin for a bit longer while Steve had drafted plans and talked to everyone they’d known, and then he'd...

Built them a house, a home, and furnished it. Some of it from his apartment in New York, and the rest he’d built, lovingly shaping, sanding and staining the wood. Steve had pored over paint swatches, painting their bedroom three times until it was just the right shade, and he'd installed skylights and windows. 

When Bucky had questioned the skylight in their room, Steve had flushed and muttered something about moonlight and Bucky’s eyes. And even before they’d moved in properly, Steve had fucked him underneath the skylight, on the bare floor. They’d both ended up with scraped knees, breathless from orgasm and dizzy on moonlight. 

After they'd moved in, they'd ended up with a bit of a menagerie.

The plant from Battleworld turns out to be a bit fussy and doesn’t like the outside, but it also won’t leave Angel alone. Not that it tries to eat her, but it does steal her toys, and tease her whiskers whenever she walks past, even going so far as to relocate out of its pot to find her. It’s also in the middle of a little reproductive burst, so they’d needed to build a greenhouse for it and their other less local plants. 

Bucky pauses to shoo the chickens out of the greenhouse, grinning at their indignant squawking. The space chickens had hatched and they’re much like regular chickens, just...brighter. Their colors shift to fit their moods, and Bucky privately thinks of them as little fluffy mood rings. 

The space chickens aren’t the only new additions. Steve had made more friends than he’d realized, in New York. After he’d said his goodbyes, he’d come to Bucky and their land with his big, sweet heart and a full truckload of lumber, ready to build. But he’d also come with seeds from distant planets and forgotten worlds—seeds, plant starts, and strange fruits. 

And a puppy, a gigantic, red-eyed, slobbery canine-ish creature, entirely covered with soft, furred tentacles. It herds, and it can braid its tentacles into a barrier, and has some kind of psychic power, because with a few soft barks and a whine, all of their errant poultry, weird alien cows with multiple horns, and brilliantly rainbow sheep all turn and meekly file into their places.

During the day, they take care of their odd assortment and try to grow new things because their world has changed around them. At night, Steve studies for the same reason, anatomy, pharmacology, and chemistry. 

“I know Devil’s physiology and temperament in a way no other does, when he is sick and ailing. I care for him and I enjoy it. Our beasts here, and at New Asgard have no, um, animal doctor nearby. Bruce knows much, but no one is that versed in alien physiology.”

Steve had looked a little embarrassed, and of course, there is no degree to be had in intergalactic veterinary science, but he’d started basic courses regardless. Bucky had nearly burst with pride when he’d passed his first round of classes. Bucky loves seeing Steve at night with books piled up at his elbow and glasses on the tip of his nose, in the soft glow of a laptop as he clicks through various tutorials and calls Bruce and sometimes Strange for help. 

Steve’s serum is faded but stable, no longer actively harming him. He’s durable enough and heals quickly, is still unusually strong. But he skews more human than super soldier and seems at peace with it. Bucky’s just grateful that he’s healthy. 

Bucky leans on his shovel and watches the glow of the transport circle flick out as Strange makes his way up the hill. Strange looks casual, comfortable. He’s growing out his hair and his beard, and his cheeks are a little pink with the exertion. He’s not bothering to hide his hands today, hasn’t been doing that at all, lately. The sleeves of his flannel pushed up to his forearms, the time stone glows around his neck, and his jeans are worn and tucked into a pair of work boots. 

He looks most unlike the fussy man Bucky had met years ago, when Bucky had tumbled out of a portal back into the world. 

Steve leaves off fussing with the emus. He’d wanted emus, insisting that they’d be good companions for Devil. He’d babied the eggs along in the incubator, watching the little striped terrors hatch, and now...they’re nightmares, completely incorrigible, teasing all the other birds while Devil tries to hide in the chicken coop, unimpressed with their sass. 

Bucky spends a lot of time now watching Steve try to reason with emus, which should get old, but somehow doesn’t. One of the larger emus meets Strange halfway and then follows him the rest of the way up. Bucky has to blink and take a deep, calming breath because the emu will not leave, despite encouragement. 

It stands with the rest of them, its silly head bobbing, and Bucky resigns himself to an avian onlooker even as he slides an arm around Steve’s waist, feeling the heat of his body beneath the thin t-shirt. He nods at Strange. 

“Steven. James.”

“Strange, hey.” 

Bucky feels equal parts formal and irritated, as usual with Strange. Bucky gestures at the emu. 

“This is Dan.” He feels compelled to add.

Strange nods at the emu and Bucky half-hopes Strange thinks it’s a magic emu, or a space emu, or a shape shifted something or other. 

“What brings you here? We’re going to have a house warming but we’re not quite ready yet.” 

Strange speaks directly to Steve. “You didn’t come back.” 

Steve shuffles his feet. “I didn’t think I needed to.” 

Strange looks at Steve appraisingly and Steve goes on. “If I get pulled back, Bucky can find me and bring me home again. I haven’t felt too much disturbance.”

He’s not completely being truthful with Strange. Time had tried to pull at him, and he’d resisted, more than once. 

Strange looks at both of them, and his voice is oddly formal. “Steven, you came to me before, and you asked if there was a way you could remain here, securely anchored.”

“And you told me no.” 

Strange holds up a hand. “I told you, not yet, that the balance of your soul must shift and change before it can settle.” 

Bucky feels like he can’t breathe. “Strange, what are you saying?” 

“This will require both of you to consent and commit.” 

Bucky fumbles for Steve’s hand and Steve grips it tight, a warm, solid presence beside him. 

“I can... well, you would not understand the technicalities, but in essence, your timelines, the branches of your life, the future possibilities. I can weave them, tangle them closer together.”

Naively, Bucky says, “Aren’t they already woven together? Aren’t we already tangled?” 

He feels Steve’s fingers, tight on his. 

Kindly, more kindly than he ever expects from Strange, whom he has always suspected has looked back on him, to be so kind, Strange says, “You are, the both of you, and it’s why I couldn't do it sooner. The balance of your souls and the possibilities had to grow together on their own, orienting towards together, shifting to the same axis. What I can do now is more permanent. A marriage, of sorts.”

Strange looks very firm. “It cannot be undone, at least not without extraordinary circumstances. You must be very sure.” 

“Yes,” Bucky blurts out, but Steve is more tempered. 

“Buck, it sounds like we’ll be tied together. Permanently.”

“Yes, excellent, full points Steven.” Strange says, sarcastically. “Your fates will indeed be tied. The full practical ramifications are beyond your ken.”

Strange continues on, “I can guess at the future, but it is only guessing. I don’t anticipate the binding will change your day-to-day life, much. You may have a greater sense of each other. Leaving each other will be difficult.”

Steve leans down, presses a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “It already is.” 

Strange rolls his eyes. “Traveling in time will be something to explore, if need be. You will likely need to go together. I think it would tear you apart and shatter your timeline to pull yourselves so far apart. But moving about Earth, I cannot anticipate.” 

Bucky shrugs. “Still yes, if it means Steve is here permanently.” 

“Bucky…”

Bucky squeezes Steve's hand tightly. 

“What about Devil?” 

Strange sighs, exasperated. “That dinosaur goes where he will. I cannot hold him. Time cannot hold him. He is his own creature and he makes his own destiny. He has chosen, for now, to share it with you.”

“Then yes.” Bucky looks up at Steve. “You can say say no, of course. But if it’s because of me, know that I want you here with me for as long as we have.”

Steve stares down at him for an uncomfortably long time and Bucky can feel the struggle in him. The struggle that had plagued Steve before him. The difficulty in reaching out for happiness, for grasping it and bringing it close. He’d come so much further and had said yes so many more times than Bucky had hoped or expected. He holds his breath.

Steve looks away, eyes bright, and he’s digging in his pocket now, and Bucky just waits and breathes. 

Strange politely angles himself away with a clear air of ‘ready to wait while emotions happen’ around him. The movement puts him face to face with the emu, who is extremely interested in the buttons of his flannel, and Bucky chokes out a little laugh. He wants a cigarette, but he'd quit, finally, unwilling to test the extent of the Dino cure on Steve. Instead, he twists his fingers together, while Steve continues to look through his own pockets. First the right, then the left, and then his breast pocket. 

“Ah!” 

Steve clears his throat and pulls Bucky to face him, one warm hand on his hip and the other clenched in a fist. 

“Bucky, I've been waiting for the right moment, all the while wondering if I’d missed it already. Or, if I was continuing to miss it, because all the time with you...the time we have shared together, it's been good and right, even when it's been difficult. And, I can hardly ask you to tie your fate to me, spiritually, without this.”

Bucky swallows hard. Steve’s hand is open, and two rings lie flat on his palm, made of polished gold. And he’s ruined from all these damn animals because his first thought is to cover Steve’s palm and look around for the emus, or Devil, or something else that might want to snack on something small and shiny. 

“Bucky, will you wed me? Join with me legally? I jested, before, about courting you, but since before that day, backwards at times, wrong headed at others, I have been courting you.” 

Bucky nods furiously, eyes streaming and he means to say, “Yes, of course,” and “I love you,” but instead he hears himself saying, “Are you sure?” 

He wants to kick himself. 

Steve answers him, seriously. “I know that this is not a first love, for either of us. That we have both loved before, and were left alone and hurting. We are both of us broken in our ways, but together...we're whole. Bucky, on Battleworld, when you came for me, you stood before me and you showed me our way home, and you asked me to come with you. Now, I ask you, will you make your home with me?"

Steve’s eyes are filled with tears, and Bucky can’t breathe quite right. All he can do is hold his hand out to Steve, offering and accepting. 

Warm metal slides into place, accentuating the designs of his arm as if it’d been meant for him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he idly thinks that the ring probably had been, because rings for metal hands aren’t off the shelf items. 

His own fingers fumble to place the other ring on Steve’s hand.

There’s probably legal shit to attend to, and Strange is still standing there, deep in silent communication with the emu.

Bucky can’t think of that anymore, because he’s leaning up to kiss Steve, and Steve is kissing him back, lips warm and gentle even has his hand tightens on Bucky’s hip and Bucky's arms wrap around his neck.

Like their first kiss and their fiftieth, like countless others, this kiss tastes like _home._

Their kiss is a quickened heartbeat, the taste of desire, and a soothing hand in sickness, in grief. The burn of muscle wielding a blade, and the quiet joy of building a home. The sweet scent of baking sugar and cool, crisp sheets. Their kiss is Devil’s soft snores and clear, quiet nights. 

Bucky tastes their life and feels it in the warm, hot slide of Steve’s mouth, in the sweetness of their mingled breath and the unfamiliar feeling of metal on metal. 

Their first kiss had felt like a breath of hope, a promise. This one is hope fulfilled, a promise kept and treasured, and renewed. 

Bucky smiles against Steve’s lips and kisses him again.

  
Scene Art by [LiquidLightz ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037844)(click link for AO3 art post)  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is brought to you by approximately 7 seasons of the X-Files, endless cups of coffee, the boundless support and enthusiasm of the NASBB community, and about a hundred google searches on the various attributes of the much esteemed Tyrannosaurus rex.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art: lost in time, lost in space](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884539) by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLightz/pseuds/LiquidLightz)
  * [Art: How Do I Live](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944189) by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLightz/pseuds/LiquidLightz)
  * [Art: Home is with You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037844) by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLightz/pseuds/LiquidLightz)




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